Memories and Nightmares
by xXSapphirewatersXx
Summary: Sherlock has had the ability to see people's worst memories with a touch since he was born and has hated it his entire life. He has always been able to keep it a secret. When the surgeon John Watson comes home to London from Afghanistan and the two of them meet, will Sherlock finally learn to trust someone, after separating himself from the world for so long?
1. Chapter 1

**Prologue**

Running, he felt he was always running from this. Sherlock finally stops to catch his breath and ends up hurling into a nearby can, using his ability always did manage to take too much out of him. He leans heavily against the wall knowing that Detective Inspector Lestrade would find him in a few moments. It wasn't that he hated being able to see memories of anyone he touches, it was just so bloody difficult when every time he ends up hurling, and on the bright, yet more boring, side he did manage to see everything that had led up to the woman's death.

He hears heavy footsteps running through the splatters of rain and heavy breathing in front of him. "Lestrade," Sherlock greets him.

"Sherlock, is this where you ended up?"

"Obviously." He states, glad to know his voice was back to normal.

"Why did you run off? It looked like you were about to throw up," Sherlock's eyes flicker briefly to the can along the opposite wall. "Are you alright Sherlock?"

_'As if I was going to show weakness in front of Scotland Yard,'_He thinks. "I'm fine Lestrade really, I needed to think and being surrounded by all those idiots was giving me a headache."

Lestrade gives him an incredulous look. "I'm breaking every rule letting you into the crime scene in the first place."

"Yes, because you need my help and I am now on my way to catch your murderer." Sherlock snaps, sounding more irritated then he means to.

"Sherlock, while I'm getting used to you running off in the way that you did, don't you think you're being a little…not yourself?" Lestrade asks, rubbing the back of his head nervously. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"For god's sake Lestrade I'm-"Sherlock never gets to finish as a familiar black car shows up just at the end of the alley. "Damn it Mycroft," he murmurs so low Lestrade almost doesn't hear him.

"Do you know who that is?" Lestrade asks, as the figure of Mycroft Holmes steps out of the car and walks over to them.

"The most dangerous man you'll ever meet." Sherlock growls, as his brother reaches them. "Back from your not so secret meeting in Tokyo I see."

Mycroft ignores him and holds out his hand in greeting to Lestrade. "Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade I presume, it's nice to finally meet you."

"And who are you?" Lestrade asks taking the man's hand, his voice guarded.

"Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's older brother." He answers and can't hide the small smirk that appears when Lestrade gapes at him.

"There are two of you!?" Lestrade exclaims.

"Does that make you nervous Lestrade?" Sherlock almost laughs but opts to continue glaring at his brother. "What are you doing here Mycroft?"

"You know why I'm here dear brother; I need you to come with me."

Sherlock crosses his arms, as if a child about to pout, "And if I refuse?"

Mycroft sighs, "Must you make everything so difficult? You know if you refuse I could have you bonded, gagged, knocked out, and thrown in my car."

Lestrade almost looks panicked for a moment and opens his mouth to say something, but Sherlock beats him to it. "Yes you could, you could also have me forced out of the country, but you won't do that either."

"Sherlock-"

"I'm done talking to you Mycroft, if you'll excuse me I need to catch a killer." Sherlock interrupts him and starts walking off in the other direction. "Try not to start a war while I'm trying to work."

"Henry Johnson." Mycroft calls out, causing Sherlock to stop and sigh deeply.

"Who?" Lestrade asks.

"The name of your killer Detective Inspector." Mycroft responds opening a file he pulls out from his jacket. "Thirty-eight years old, alcoholic, recently, oh very recently, divorced, English professor, and I presume the victim is one of his students Sherlock?"

"One of his best." Sherlock replies grudgingly without turning around. "He asked her to go out to dinner with him in order to talk about her final paper before she graduated; he drank too much and began thinking that she was his wife. He offered her a ride home after dinner, but instead of stepping into his car he dragged her into the alley and began yelling at her. He then proceeded to rape her, claiming that she was still his, and soon realized that she wasn't his wife. He apologized profoundly, helped her get dressed, but then decided that he didn't want to deal with the consequences and, surprisingly, killed her in a way that left very little evidence to have him as a suspect. He is scheduled to give a final lecture tomorrow at the University of London.

"How the bloody hell could you possibly figure all that out?" Lestrade asks more surprised than anything else.

"It's my job to see things other people miss." Sherlock states, his air of confidence not matching his tone of voice.

"That's not seeing Sherlock; you're talking as if you were there." Lestrade points out. Sherlock finally turns around, catches Mycroft's eyes and quickly looks away.

"I'm sure there's a lot of my brother's skill that you have yet to see." Mycroft states quickly, "After all you have only worked with him for a month."

Lestrade then turns to the elder Holmes. "Okay so how the hell did you know, not only about the case, but the name of the murderer before even Sherlock figured it out?"

"Who says Sherlock hadn't figured it out before I did?" Mycroft smirks and turns back to his brother, leaving Lestrade to gape at the two of them. "Come now dear brother, even you must have deduced that one way or another you are getting into the car and coming with me."

"You really don't think I'm capable of walking away from you?"

"You had your chance to walk away when I was reading Henry Johnson's file, but you, predictably, stayed in order to prove yourself correct." Mycroft points out and can't help the smirk that appears on his face when this information dawns on Sherlock.

"Oh sod off Mycroft." Sherlock growls angrily.

"Sherlock please get in the car, you know how I tire of these silly trifles." Mycroft sighs; leaning heavily on the umbrella Sherlock knows is one of the simple gifts from their mother and clutches his blue scarf tightly.

Lestrade honestly didn't know what to do, he felt as though he was in the middle of a fight between two children. Just who exactly were these two? He had only known Sherlock for about a month and, though Sherlock acted like a pompous dick half the time, he respects him, grudgingly so, but does.

"Just make it quick." Sherlock finally speaks moving past the two of them and towards the waiting car.

"I promise this won't take up much of your time." Mycroft laughs humorlessly and turns back to Lestrade. "It was nice to meet you Detective Inspector." With a nod of his head both Holmes brothers stepped into the car and were gone, leaving Lestrade wondering what the hell had just happened and planning to confront one Henry Johnson the next morning.

"You got Henry Johnson from me mouthing his name after I saw the memory." Sherlock states, as they were driving through the streets of London.

Mycroft shrugs. "Yes, but I still had to do that much." Sherlock only scowls and leans back in his seat. "Sherlock, how are you feeling, and don't give me that look." He scowls at Sherlock's expression. "I know you feel the pain of whatever memory you see, causing you to hurl up whatever is in your stomach, which frankly isn't much."

Sherlock flinches slightly at that comment, okay yes, every time he uses his gift he feels the pain of being stabbed, choked, poisoned, shot, and whatever other tools people use to cause death and it was a pain in the ass. "Why do you think I don't eat much?"

Mycroft notices Sherlock's slight tremor and cocks an eyebrow, "Sherlock, that's hardly healthy."

"It's not as if I asked for this damn thing." Sherlock snaps.

"I would've thought, doing what you do, your _gift_-"He states icily, "would help significantly."

"It makes my job boring." Sherlock states. "That case today would've taken me at least half a day to figure out and now I've got nothing to do, though I suppose my _gift_, as you so politely put it, would help you with your job greatly wouldn't it?"

"That's not how I meant it."

Sherlock laughs. "Ever since we were little you've been jealous of it, do you want it, because I certainly don't."

"As tempting as that sounds, I don't think I could stand the consequences that come with it." Mycroft almost smiles. Sherlock only rolls his eyes and turns to look out the window. "Sherlock, you know I worry about you."

"Oh yeah, how often?"

"Constantly."

"The only thing you worry about is how my reputation affects your position." Sherlock rolls his eyes in a childish manner. "Besides, it's not like anything I do can tarnish your _reputation_in our government, you've made quite sure of that."

"How did you manage to get that woman's memory; I always thought you wore gloves anytime you went out." Mycroft asks honestly curious and purposely directing the conversation away from his job.

"I got a bit careless." Sherlock admits. "I turned away from the victim, taking my gloves off, thinking I was done touching her and someone asked me another question, didn't catch the name, and I turned around. I then grabbed the woman's arm to prove a point and the memory of her death, well, flashed in my head and I got all the information they needed."

"Sherlock, though I loathe admitting it, you can't keep doing this alone." Mycroft sighs. "This isn't the first time you've almost been caught."

"Really?" Sherlock asks him incredulously. "You of all people know how much I hate dealing with other people for a significant amount of time. You and mother had to get special permission back when I was attending university so I could have a dorm to myself."

"Because you continued to run off all the roommates that were assigned to you."

"Would you rather they find out I can recall their worst memories with a single touch?" Sherlock snaps. "You really want me living with someone who will, inevitably, find out about this blasted annoyance."

"I didn't say you have to live with someone." He argues. "All I said was that it might be a good idea if you-"

"I can't get close to anybody because of this."

"So you say."

"Goddamn it Mycroft, sod off." Sherlock nearly shouts and opens the door, revealing that the car had indeed stopped and was now parked in front of his small flat.

"Take care Sherlock and please think about what I've said." Mycroft smirks and closes the door behind him, before the car drives off.

"Who would want me as a flatmate?" Sherlock scoffs and runs up the stairs, closing the door to his flat behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Five years later**

John Watson walks out of St. Barts and limps slowly down the road in order to catch a cab. He had visited his old place of work, St. Bart's hospital, not for any reason other than wanting to get out of his small flat. Some of his old colleagues had told him that his old friend Mike Stamford was across town and had given John his number, now he's on his way to meet him in a café in Brixton.

He finally hails a cab and slides in just as another person comes in on the other side, both telling the driver Brixton, Lauriston Gardens, before closing the doors. "Oh, hello, you don't mind do you?" John asks looking at the other man, in his long coat and scarf.

The other man didn't even seem to realize that John was there and blinked slowly. "Oh…yes, as long as we're going to the same place I suppose."

"John Watson." He holds out his hand to the other man and smiles warmly.

He stares at the outstretched hand as if it was going to hurt him and finally takes it in his gloved hand. John catches a brief flicker of relief in the other man's eyes. "Sherlock Holmes."

They sit in silence for nearly ten minutes and Sherlock finally sighs, as if needing to confirm something, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan." John murmurs automatically, still staring out the window and as if suddenly realizing what the man was asking he turns to face him. "How-?"

"May I borrow your phone?" Sherlock asks, ignoring his question. "Can't get a signal on mine."

"Uh…yeah sure." John blinks taking his phone out of his pocket and handing it to him.

"Thank you."

The next five minutes were full of silence while Sherlock played with the mobile. "How do you feel about the violin?" He asks, handing the device back to John.

"I'm sorry?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking; sometimes I don't talk for days on end, would that bother you?"

"Well…no, but what are you going on about?"

"You're looking for a flatmate aren't you?" He inquires.

"How, the hell, could you possibly know that?" John asks dumbstruck.

Sherlock ignores him again and instead takes a look out the window, as the cab pulls to a stop against the curb. They both pay their share and step out of the cab.

"I've got my eye on a nice little place in Central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it." He continues as the cab drives off. "Why don't you meet me there in two hours and we can talk more?"

"Is that it then, we don't know a thing about one another and we're already going to go and look at a flat?" John asks him disbelievingly, looking up at the man, not surprised by his height.

Sherlock stares at him, as if trying to figure out a puzzle. "I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him—possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife and that you don't want to leave London." He smirks at John's expression. "The address is 221b Baker Street and I'm afraid I must be going, but I'll see you in a few hours."

With that statement Sherlock turns around, his coat billowing behind him, and lifts his hand in a wave. John just stares at the back of the exiting man and is about to call out his name but realizes that Sherlock has already disappeared. Still trying to wrap his head around what just happened John turns around and walks in the direction of the café he's meeting Mike at.

Over an hour later Mike is laughing in the seat across from him. "Come on Mike, who would seriously want me as a flatmate?" John asks.

"Sherlock Holmes wouldn't exactly be a normal flatmate." Mike points out. "He always acts that way."

"You know him then?"

"He is frequently visiting the hospital and studying the bodies down in the morgue." Mike answers, taking a sip from his tea. "He's a decent guy really, but doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut, which is probably the kindest way of putting it."

"How the hell did he know that I just got back from Afghanistan and that I am looking for a flatmate?"

"How does he know half of the things that he does." Mike only shrugs. "Are you going to take him up on his offer? He mentioned the other day that he was looking for a flatmate and that he would be a difficult person to get one for."

"So why would he ask me?"

"You probably left some sort of impression on him."

"I really doubt that."

"Well you must have done something because he very rarely talks to other people."

"…Well, it's not like I have any other plans tonight." John sighs and finishes his drink. "I might as well check out the place."

"Glad to hear it; just try not to punch him in the face." Mike laughs.

"You don't have to tell me twice."

"Well," Mike gets up and drops a few notes on the table. "Good luck mate." He waves and disappears out the door.

John sighs, grabs his cane, and leaves the café in order to catch a cab to Baker Street.

When exiting the cab he sees Sherlock waiting for him outside the building in the same long coat, scarf, and gloves. "Well this is a prime spot, must be expensive." John shakes his hand, noticing again the flicker of relief that passes across the man's face.

"Mrs. Hudson the landlady is giving me a special deal. She owes me a favor. A few years back her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help her out." Sherlock answers, looking up again at the building and knocking on the door.

"So, you stopped her husband's execution?" John inquires, impressed.

"Oh no I ensured it." He grins in a way that surprises John and is about to reply when the door opens and a kind looking, elderly woman who John assumes is Mrs. Hudson comes out in a sort of panic.

"Oh Sherlock, what have you done now?" She asks, sounding like she was about to burst into tears. Sherlock's face changes drastically and John can see near panic on his face. Mrs. Hudson turns to John and her mood changes. "Oh, is this the other roommate?"

"John Watson," he reaches his hand out to shake hers. "It's nice to meet you, but I never said I would-"

"Upstairs, what's going on?" Sherlock asks her interrupting John.

"The police, oh their making such a mess." She exclaims.

Sherlock doesn't give her time to explain anymore and is running up the stairs and into the flat. John follows him more slowly and enters the sitting room to see Sherlock arguing with a man in an armchair, who looks to be in charge of the people shuffling around the flat.

"Well what do you call this then?" Sherlock asks him angrily waving his arms around the flat to all the officers pulling things out as if looking for something.

"It's a drug's bust." The man answers calmly.

"For god's sake I'm _clean_." Sherlock hisses through his teeth and lifts up his sleeve to reveal, to John's surprise, three nicotine patches. "I don't even smoke."

"Neither do I." The man, still in the armchair, replies.

"I'm not your sniffer dog."

"No Anderson's my sniffer dog." He nods towards the kitchen.

Sherlock and John turn around to see a man waving at them. "Anderson, what are you doing here on a drugs bust?" Sherlock asks disbelievingly.

"Oh I volunteered." The man sneers venomously.

"They all did. They're not strictly speaking on the drug squad, but they're very keen." The man, still in the chair, informs him.

"What are these?" A woman asks walking out of the kitchen with a jar full of what looks like eyeballs. "Are these human eyes?"

"Put those back." Sherlock demands.

"They were in the microwave."

"It's an experiment." He explains, as if talking to a child, who needs an answer to something obvious.

John smirks slightly at the exchange, but had had enough. "Okay sorry, not getting this, what the hell is going on?"

Sherlock turns around, as if just realizing that John was still there and the others look at him the same way. "Who are you?" The guy who had been sitting in the armchair finally gets up and turns to Sherlock, "well?"

"He's a…he's-?"

"I'm his flatmate." John states, not even really sure why he's still here, any sane person would have left a long time ago. "Now who the hell are you and what's going on?"

The man narrows his eyes slightly but holds out his hand to John. "I'm Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade of Scotland Yard."

"John Watson," he shakes Lestrade's hand.

"The freak has a flatmate?" The woman who had previously held the jar of human eyes comes back into the living room and stares at him in shock.

John ignores her and turns back to Lestrade. "So what is actually going on here?"

Greg only sighs and is more than surprised at the sudden appearance of Sherlock's flatmate. "Sorry about this, I knew Sherlock would find the suitcase."

"The suitcase for what?"

"Sherlock believes-"A cough from the man himself and Lestrade groans. "I'm sorry Sherlock knows that the four recent suicides are the work of a serial killer and the latest victim, Jennifer Wilson, had been missing her suitcase when we found her."

John recalls this morning's paper. "Oh yeah, I read about that this morning, something about all of them taking the same pill?"

"Yes, and Sherlock believes- knows," he corrects himself again, "that the murderer talks to them and persuades them to take the pill themselves." Lestrade fills him in.

"Yeah, and according to someone, the murderer has the case and we found it in the hands of our favorite psychopath." The man John now knows as Anderson retorts, walking out to stand next to the woman. "What did you do freak, talk to them so much that they finally offed themselves?"

Sherlock quickly turns around to face him, "I'm not a psychopath, Anderson. I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research." He turns back to Lestrade, ignoring the man's other comment. "Have you found Rachel yet?"

"Who?" John asks.

"Jennifer Wilson's daughter," Lestrade answers him and looks at Sherlock. "You won't be able to talk to her. Rachel is her stillborn daughter."

Sherlock looks honestly stunned. "That…that can't be right, why would she still be thinking about her daughter?"

"Why would she think of her daughter in the moments before her death?" Anderson looks at him with disbelief. "Yeah, sociopath, I'm starting to see it now."

"She scratched Rachel's name into the floor with her fingernails, it had to have hurt." Sherlock argues. "No, there has to be something more to it."

"Sentiment?" John offers taking out his phone and seeing that he had a message from Mike asking if he'd punched the man yet.

Sherlock stares at John and then his eyes flicker down to the phone. "Oh…OH, that's it." He puts his hands on John's shoulders, surprising Lestrade who knows that Sherlock hates any form of physical contact. "Thank you John, don't you people see?" He asks turning around to face Lestrade; they all just give him blank looks. "Rachel," he offers again and sighs, "Oh look at you lot. You're all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing. Rachel is not a name."

"Well what is it then?" John snaps.

Sherlock moves over to sit down and open his laptop. "John, on the luggage, there's a label. Email address."

"Uh, .uk."

"Oh, I've been too slow. She didn't have a laptop, which means she did her business on her phone, so it's a Smartphone, its e-mail enabled." Sherlock murmurs half to himself and typing in the information. "So there was a website for her account. The username is her e-mail address…and all together now, the password is?"

"Rachel." John realizes, moving over to stand behind him.

"So we can read her e-mails. So what?"Anderson barks from behind them.

Sherlock sighs in annoyance, "Anderson, don't talk out loud. You lower the I.Q. of the whole street. We can do much more than just read her e-mails. It's a Smartphone, it's got GPS, which means if you lose it you can locate it online. She's leading us directly to the man who killed her."

"Unless he got rid of it," Lestrade argues.

"He wouldn't get rid of it; to him this is a game and he's just getting started." Sherlock grins; in a way that John feels shivers run down his spine in fear and, for whatever reason, adrenaline. That hasn't happened in a long time.

Mrs. Hudson enters the flat. "Sherlock dear, there's a cab waiting for you outside."

"I didn't order a cab." Sherlock waves a hand towards her dismissively and turns to Lestrade. "We need to get vehicles, get a helicopter. We're going to need to move fast. The phone battery won't last forever."

Lestrade looks at him in exasperation, "We'll just have a map reference, not a name."

"It's a start!" Sherlock argues with him.

John moves to sit in front of the computer and watches as the tracker finally gets a signal. He freezes as he realizes where the phone is supposedly located. "Sherlock…"

"It narrows it down from just anyone in London. It's the first proper lead we've had." He's still arguing with Lestrade behind him.

'_Sherlock wouldn't have set up this whole thing right?' _John wonders, looking at the screen again. _'He has the case; he somehow knew…no, no he wouldn't. Then again, I did only meet this guy a few hours ago.' _He shakes his head of the thought and suddenly wonders how he got in the middle of all of this, but realizes that he is rather starting to enjoy it. "Um…Sherlock-"

Sherlock finally seems to hear him and runs over to stand behind him. "What is it? Quickly, where?"

"It's…its here. It's in two two one Baker Street." John shows him the screen. "Also, do people usually assume you're the murderer in these cases?"

"Now and again yes and so should you," He grins as if it's his own private joke and his face turns dark. "Now how could the phone be here? How?"

"Well, maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it fell out somewhere?" Lestrade suggests, moving beside them and taking a look at the screen.

"What and I didn't notice it?" _Me? _I didn't notice?" Sherlock gives him an incredulous look.

Lestrade stares at him for a second, sighs, and turns back to his team. "Guys, we're looking for a mobile somewhere here, belonged to the victim."

"Who do we trust, even if we don't know them?" Sherlock murmurs, stepping way from John and pacing around the room with his hands together. "Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?"

John turns around after realizing Sherlock had stopped pacing and sees him looking down to his phone. "Sherlock?" He asks tentatively, "Are you alright?"

Sherlock is staring out the door and vaguely hears him. "What?" He turns to John swiftly. "Yeah, yeah, I-I'm fine."

"So how do you think the phone could be here?"

"Dunno."

John sighs and looks down at his phone. "Do you have the number? I could try calling it."

"Below the e-mail address on the suitcase, there's the number." Sherlock informs him and heads towards the door, pulling his jacket and scarf off the rack by the door.

"Where are you going?" John asks moving over to sit in the other chair, opposite of the case that was sitting on the foot rest.

"Fresh air. Just popping outside for a moment. I won't be long."

John frowns as Sherlock leaves the room, and calls after him. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine." Sherlock calls back and John soon hears the front door open and close.

John only sighs and finally gets the phone number off the case and calls it, also realizing he's in a room full of people who obviously didn't like the man who had just left.

"You're not his friend. He doesn't have friends, so who are you?" The woman from earlier walks up to him.

The phone is ringing, but John doesn't hear any other sound, other than the cops shuffling around the place, so he assumes the phone isn't here. "I'm just his flatmate, who are you?"

"Sergeant Sally Donovan." She answers and narrows her eyes. "We've searched through this whole flat and there isn't anything to prove that he has a flatmate."

"I still haven't moved all my things yet." He states, calling the phone again and listening to it ring.

"Bit of advice, get out of here while you can." She warns. "And stay the hell away from that guy."

"Why would I do that?"

"Do you know why he does all of this? He likes it. The weirder the crime the more he gets off on it. And do you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there." She states coldly.

John has to give her credit for trying, but he already realizes that there's something about Sherlock that draws him in and he wants to find out more about this man. "Thank you for the warning really, but I'm not a child and can think for myself."

She gives him an incredulous look and storms off towards the man named Anderson. John sighs and walks over to the window to see Sherlock stepping into a cab. "He just got into a cab." He turns to Lestrade. "It's Sherlock. He just drove off in a cab.

Donovan growls in frustration and turns to Lestrade. "He bloody left again." She walks into the kitchen and calls back to Lestrade. "We're wasting our time."

John moves back over to the laptop and gestures the phone in Lestrade's direction. "I'm calling the phone. It's ringing out."

"Well if it's ringing it's not here." Lestrade sighs.

John turns to the laptop. "I'll try the search again."

Donovan storms back into the living room and walks straight up to Lestrade. "Does it matter? Does any of it? You know, he's just a lunatic, and he'll always let you down, and you're wasting your time. All our time."

Lestrade stares at her for a long moment and she holds his gaze, then he sighs. "Okay everyone. We're done here, start packing up."

Nearly ten minutes pass and all of the other officers are heading downstairs, but Lestrade is still putting on his coat. "Why did he do that? Why did he have to leave?" He asks, almost to himself.

John shrugs. "You know him better than I do."

Lestrade laughs humorlessly. "I've known him for five years and no, I don't."

"So why do you put up with him?"

"Because I'm desperate, that's why." He answers, almost sounding sad as he walks over to the door and John is about to say something when Lestrade turns back around. "And because Sherlock Holmes is great man. And I think one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one." With that, he nods a goodbye and leaves the room.

John sighs and pockets his phone, before getting up and heading into the kitchen for some water. '_I may as well go back to my flat for now and see Sherlock in the morning.' _He argues with himself, but still manages to stay in the kitchen far longer then he needs too, thinking over everything that's happened in just a few hours. _'What the hell did I get myself into, though I suppose I could still just walk away.' _He found that idea harder than going home. Sighing deeply he walks back into the living room and decides he's been here long enough. John looks down and clenches his right hand tightly; looking over by the laptop he sees that his coat is still hanging on the back of the chair and goes over to grab it, when the computer beeps. Confused John looks up at the screen and sees a new address, his mouth drops open in surprise and he drops his cane, grabs the laptop, and runs out the door.

John gets into a cab and directs him first to his current residence in order to grab his gun. John's military instincts were going into overdrive and he was frightened for the man who he had only known for a few hours. "Can you just keep driving down this road and just turn when I ask?" He asks the cab driver, after getting back in.

"Sue thing mate, don't know where you're going?" His driver asks, pulling away from the curb.

"I'm looking for someone actually." He lifts the laptop high enough for him to see it. "Friend of mine wandered off and I'm tracking the phone."

"Bit stalkerish isn't it?"

"He left with someone I believe is trying to kill him." John states. The driver shuts up and focuses more on the road. Smirking, John reaches into his jacket and pulls out his phone to call Lestrade. "Turn left just up here," he asks and listens to the person on the other end of the phone. "No, Detective Inspector Lestrade, I need to speak to him. It's important. It's an emergency!" The laptop beeps again, "Turn right just up here please." He asks and the driver, "And another right straight away."

The cab finally pulls up to a building John recognizes as Roland-Kerr College and his eyes rest on the cab in front. _'The same cab as the one that took Sherlock.' _"You've got to be kidding me." He breathes and recalls everything Sherlock was murmuring earlier_. "Who do we trust, even if we don't know them?" "Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?" _"A goddamn cabbie driver is the murderer."

"Sir?"

John realizes he's talking out loud and is still in the cab. "Ah sorry, talking to myself. This is the place thank you." He then pays the man and gets out of the car. "Sorry about that, thanks for everything tonight."

"A cab driver is the murderer?"

"Don't worry about it." John waves him off and closes the door. The driver stares at him another moment before shrugging it off and driving away. John prays silently that he is entering the right building and runs inside to search. _'Shit, shit, shit, I hope you know what you're doing Sherlock.' _He inwardly panics. "Sherlock!" No response and nothing on the first floor. He is running up to the second floor when he phone starts going off. "Lestrade?"

"Yes John it's me, what's going on?"

"Roland-Kerr College, the murderer and Sherlock are there." John wastes no time in telling him and hurries into the second level corridors and starts slamming open doors, calling out Sherlock's name.

"John, what's going on?" Lestrade asks. "I'm getting ready to go now, but I need a situation report, who's the murderer?"

John sighs, "A cab driver."

"A…a cab driver," Lestrade sounds speechless. "A cab driver is the serial killer?"

"Yes, a cab driver is your serial killer and right now I believe Sherlock is talking to him." John confirms, opening another door. "I may need you to bring an ambulance, just in case this goes sour."

"Understood, we're on our way now, just try and keep everything under control."

"Meaning you want me to make sure Sherlock stays out of trouble."

"Let's just say that someone will kill me if something ever happened to him."

"Right, I'll keep that in mind, just hurry up and get here." John nearly snaps and hangs up the phone. _'Did he just say that someone will kill him if something happens to Sherlock?' _He realizes, shrugging it off and putting his phone away. When he opens the last door and finds it empty he curses. _'I chose the wrong building.' _He moves over to the window to see Sherlock and another man seemingly talking in the other building. _'He talks his victims into taking the pills themselves.' _Sherlock's voice comes back to mind. _'Shit,' _He groans and opens the window, "Sherlock!"

Neither of the men in the other building seems to hear him and John sees Sherlock hold up something that looks like a pill. John gets a sickening feeling in his stomach and pulls his gun out from under his jacket and aims it at the other man, just in case Sherlock does something stupid. _'Am I really prepared to do this for someone I barely know?' _He thinks to himself and then he remembers all that had happened back in Afghanistan. When Sherlock has his hand up, as if he is going to swallow the pill, John has his resolve and prepares to shoot. The minute the pill reaches Sherlock's mouth John pulls the trigger. "You bloody idiot." After the other man falls backwards John puts his gun away and runs from the room before Sherlock could see him.

John hides in an alleyway until the police arrive and sees Sherlock being led over to the ambulance. He walks over to where Sally Donovan was standing and asks her, "Is he alright? What the hell happened?"

"I was going to ask you the same thing." She crosses her arms. "You didn't see anything?"

He shakes his head, "As soon as I figured out the location I called Lestrade. I just got here when you were all setting up the police tape."

She stares him down hard and sighs, uncrossing her arms. "Apparently there were two pills, a good pill and a bad pill. The cabbie driver would threaten his victims at gunpoint if they didn't pick one of the pills. It was either take the 50-50 chance with the pills or get shot in the head."

"That's insane!"

"Yeah no kidding," she scratches the back of her head. "I'm told the freak nearly took the pill until the murderer was killed by some unknown shooter."

"Donovan we need you over here." An officer calls.

"Coming," she calls over and turns back to John. "Well I still say you should stay away from him."

"I'll think about it." He replies icily. She only gives him another cold glare and wanders off.

John moves over to stand next to one of the police cars and suddenly sees Sherlock staring at him as if figuring something out. _'What the hell has gotten into him?' _He wonders, watching Sherlock talking to Lestrade as if trying to get away. Sherlock finally seems to find some excuse to get away and John smirks as he watches him walk over to him, toss the blanket around his neck into the open window of a police car, and duck under the tape.

"Um, Sergeant Donovan's just been explaining everything, the two pills. Been a dreadful business, hasn't it?" John greets him.

Sherlock just looks at him a moment. "Good shot."

John just stares at him. _'He knows,' _he realizes quickly and still tries to play it off. "Yes. Yes, it must have been, through that window."

"Well _you'd _know." John still just stares at him still trying, unsuccessfully, to look innocent. "Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case." John clears his throat and looks around nervously and Sherlock looks at him in concern. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, of course I'm alright."

"Well you have just killed a man."

"Yes, I…" He trails off. Sherlock looks at him closely. "That's true isn't it?" Sherlock continues to look at him closely and John realizes that he's actually concerned about him. "But he wasn't a very nice man."

Sherlock only nods his head, as if reassured that John's telling the truth, and smirks. "No. No, he wasn't really, was he?"

"And frankly a bloody awful cabbie."

Sherlock chuckles and starts to lead them away as he speaks, "That's true. He _was _a bad cabbie. Should have seen the route he took us to get here!"

They both start to laugh and Sherlock smiles at him. John nearly slaps his arm. "Stop! Stop, we can't giggle, it's a crime scene! Stop it!"

"You're the one who shot him. Don't blame me."

"Keep your voice down." John growls as they're walking past Sergeant Donovan. "Sorry-it's just, um, nerves, I think." He turns to her.

"Sorry." Sherlock murmurs.

John clears his throat, as they walk away from Donovan. "You were going to take that damn pill weren't you?"

Sherlock turns back to face him. "Course I wasn't. Biding my time. Knew you'd turn up."

"No you didn't, you pretty much told me to go home for the night." John argues with him. "It's how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you're an idiot." John smiles at him and is surprised to see Sherlock smile at him, as if happy to have found someone who understands him.

Sherlock then forces the smile down. "Dinner?"

John smiles. "Starving."

They turn and start to walk away again. "End of Baker Street, there's a good Chinese place, stays open until two. You can always tell a good Chinese place by examining the bottom third of the door handle."

"What the hell are you going on about? There's no way you can possibly tell-" John starts to argue with him, but stops as Sherlock suddenly starts glaring at a black car that had just pulled up to the crime scene.

"Shit." He murmurs, grabbing John's arm. "Come on let's go, hurry." He starts running off, dragging John with him.

"Sherlock, the hell-where are we going?" John stumbles trying to keep up with the man dragging him. "Why are we running, do you know who's car that is?"

"He is that most dangerous man you'll ever meet and we need to get out of here." Was Sherlock's only response, as they run into the night.

"What the hell was that all about?" John asks exhaustively, as the two of them sit down in the Chinese place Sherlock was talking about.

"It's best if you don't know for now." Sherlock tells him, as an explanation and their waiter comes over to take their order. After he leaves John looks at him curiously and Sherlock sighs. "Okay you've got questions."

"Yeah, after everything that has happened tonight, who the hell are you, what do you actually do?"

"What do you think, after all you've been involved enough in the case tonight."

"I have no idea what just happened, all I did was possibly save your life." John exclaims. "I have no idea what was even going on, I'd say private detective…"

"But?"

"…but the police don't go to private detectives, granted you seem to have solved the case, but I don't understand how, or why?"

"I'm a _consulting _detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job." Sherlock smirks sounding proud of himself, before taking a sip of his water.

"What does that mean?"

"It means that when the police are out of their depth which is always, they consult me."

"What makes you so special? The police could surely find someone else to be just as reckless as you?" John argues.

Sherlock throws him a look, "when I met you for the first time a few hours ago, I said, 'Afghanistan or Iraq.' You looked surprised.

"Yes, how _did _you know?"

Sherlock smirks. "I didn't know, I saw. You're haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But the way you spoke to me during the ride. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. You were limping really badly earlier, but you never asked for a chair inside the flat when you stood, like you had forgotten about it, so it was at least partly psychosomatic. That says that the circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan-Afghanistan or Iraq." He loudly clicks the 'k' sound at the end arrogantly. "Then there's your brother."

"Hmm?"

"Your phone. It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you're looking for a flatshare- you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then. Next we look at the scratches. Not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting across from me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit was easy. You know it already."

"The engraving on the back." John nods, taking out his phone and turning it around to see. "To Harry, from Clara."

"Harry Watson: clearly a family member, who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara. Who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must've given it to him recently- this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then-six months on he's just given it away. If she'd left him, he would've kept it. People do-sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left _her_. He gave the phone to you: that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help: that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you _don't _like his drinking."

"How can you _possibly _know about the drinking?" John asks dumbfounded.

Sherlock smiles at him. "Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone; never see a drunk's without them. There you see-I'm not just some other guy." He looks out the window, biting his lip nervously as he awaits John's reaction.

"That…was amazing."

Sherlock blinks in confusion and stares at John as if in wonder. "Do you think so?"

"Of _course _it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary."

"That not what people normally say." He almost laughs.

"Well what do people normally say?" John asks him.

"Piss off!" He smiles briefly at John, who grins and turns away to look out of the restaurant's window.

They both end up laughing a few minutes later and continuing until their waiter comes over with their food and they start to eat.

"So what was this case really about then?" John asks digging into his rice and noodles. "I mean-"Sherlock gives him an incredulous look. "How did you figure all of it out, there were what, three other victims, what made this one different?"

"Lestrade refused to let me get in on the case until this last one." Sherlock explains. "The woman left a note, well more of an engraving on the floor telling us everything we needed to know."

"You mean everything you needed to know." John smirks.

"Well yes, but the point still stands. Lestrade allowed me to enter the crime scene this evening and I realized that the cab driver had made the mistake of leaving with the case, containing a phone, the victim had brought from her home in Cardiff."

"The pink case." John states. "So you realized that these 'suicides' were actually murders because Jennifer didn't have her case or phone with her?"

"Precisely." Sherlock smirks taking a sip of his water.

"You think you can just solve all the cases in the world don't you?" John laughs.

"Yes, just as I seem to have healed your limp problem." Sherlock points out. "As I recall, when I left you at the flat earlier tonight you were still sporting your cane, yet you seem to have had no trouble running with me here."

"You arrogant sod." John laughs, reaching for his glass. "One of these days you're going to end up dead because of that arrogance you know."

"Which is why I need someone like you there to protect me when I make a bad decision." Sherlock states, causing John to nearly choke and just stare at the younger man for a moment in surprise, not expecting him to ever admit it.

"You're damn right you do." He states coming to a decision. "Which is why I've decided to move in with you."

"So your statement back at the house that you're already my flatmate, was just to get Donovan to stop talking?" He asks curiously and John realizes he was asking honestly.

"You needed to focus on the case." He shrugs. "At the time it wasn't important who I was, so yes I was trying to move the conversation along."

Sherlock blinks in surprise again. "Well…thank you, yes, I needed to focus on the case."

"Besides it doesn't matter, I've already decided to move in. I'll pick up my things tomorrow while you finish up at the Scotland Yard, yes I heard that bit." He states, as Sherlock opens his mouth. "And I should be moved in by tomorrow night."

"You realize Lestrade is going to want to talk to you for your statement, seeing as you led them to me." He points out, smirking and taking a bite of his chicken.

"Yes…I suppose he would, wouldn't he?" John sighs exhaustively. "Fine, I suppose we'll just have to get my stuff after we're interrogated."

"I assume you haven't changed much from the military and your things are pretty much packed?" He asks.

"You mean packed enough so that you don't have to come in and help?" John jokes, Sherlock looks like he's about to retort, but John beats him to it. "Relax; you can wait in the cab."

"What and have him drive me away in order to kill me?" He retorts quickly.

"You'll analyze the guy before we even make it to my current flat and be able to tell me whether or not he's capable of murdering you." John points out, as their waiter comes back over and hands them the check.

Sherlock immediately hands the man a card, still looking at John and smirks. "I'm glad to know that you already understand that, however I propose that from now on we let one another know the number of the cab we get into."

John only shrugs, as their waiter comes back. "I agree, we don't want another cabbie serial killer."

"Oh I'm sure they're out there, the cabbie tonight warned me as much." Sherlock warns him, signing the check and holding his glass up as a type of toast. "After all, they know the perfect places for a good murder."

"He actually told you this?" John asks holding up his glass.

"He did."

"Well, here's to a, hopefully, great partnership." John drinks. "And to no more cab murderers."

"I'll drink to that, but at least I have you covering my back."

"Just don't make me have too."

Sherlock only grins at him and finishes his glass. "Are you ready to go back to the flat?"

"Seeing as it's almost 2 in the morning, yes." John laughs, getting up with Sherlock and heading outside.

"So did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock asks him, later as they're walking back to the flat.

"About what, my whole story from the past three years?" John jokes. "Harry and me don't get along, never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce; and Harry is a drinker."

Sherlock raises his brows in surprise and looks proud of himself. "Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything.

John quirks his lip up in a small smile. "Harry is short for Harriet." He's happy to see the grin on Sherlock's face disappear

"Harry's your sister." He deadpans. '_Sister!' _He grits furiously, through clenched teeth and sighs. "There's always something." They round a corner and Sherlock suddenly stops and growls at the three men now standing in front of them. "What do you three want?"

"You know why we're here Mr. Holmes." The man in the center states calmly. "Our boss just wants to talk to Mr. Watson."

"Yes I'm sure he does, but I don't think you're willing to go through me." Sherlock grins cheekily. One man actually steps back a foot, as if having faced Sherlock before.

John watches the exchange in surprise, he wasn't aware that Sherlock could hold his own in a fight, but the fear in two of the men's eyes made it quite clear that he could. "Sherlock, what's going on?" He asks.

"It's nothing John."

"Clearly it's not, you've been trying to have me avoid someone since leaving the crime scene."

"John it's not that it's-" Sherlock is suddenly cut off with a whack to the back of the head and John is gagged and taken into the car.

Sometime later John wakes up in a chair, into an almost empty warehouse. A man in a suit is standing in front of him, leaning nonchalantly on an umbrella, as he gestures for John to get up.

"You're not in any trouble." The man assures him. "I merely wish to speak to you." He looks John over as the man stands up. "You don't seem very afraid."

"You don't look very frightening." John states coldly.

"Ah yes, there's that military training in you." The man notes taking a file out of his jacket. "The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?"

"So what the hell was all that about?"

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place. " He gestures his umbrella around the building."

"Discreet? You had three people, well four seeing as there was one behind us, knock Sherlock out and then kidnap me!" John snaps.

"Yes and neither of you know where you are at the moment." He points out. "Tell me, what is your connection to Sherlock?" He asks more sternly this time.

"I just met him today!"

"Yes, and you just solved a case with him and saved his life, all in a few hours." He points out; in an arrogant manner that shows John that this guy in front of him isn't to be messed with. "Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

"Who _are _you?" John asks, as calmly as he can.

"An interested party."

"Interested in Sherlock? Why? I'm guessing you're not friends." John asks, after seeing how everyone treated the man today he could tell that Sherlock wasn't well liked and had a hard time getting along with anybody.

The man grins at him mockingly. "You've met him. How man 'friends' do you think he has? I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having."

"And what's that?" John asks exhaustively.

"An enemy."

"An enemy?"

"In _his _mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his _arch-_enemy. He does so love to be dramatic."

John gives him a look and gestures his hand around the warehouse. "Well, thank god _you're _above all that." He remarks sarcastically.

The man frowns and takes on a more serious tone. "Do you plan on continuing your association with Sherlock Holmes?"

"I really don't think that's any of your business."

"It _could _be." He states ominously.

"No, it _really _couldn't." John argues with him.

The man takes a notebook from his inside pocket, then opens it and consults it as he speaks. "If you _do _move into, um…two hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis t ease your way." He closes the notebook and puts it away again.

"Why?"

"Because you're not a wealthy man." He shrugs.

John sighs. "In exchange for what?"

"Information . Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel…uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to."

"Why?" John cocks an eyebrow, honestly curious. What could this guy possibly want to know about Sherlock that he doesn't already?

"I worry about him." He grins. "Constantly." He adds, using the line he likes telling Sherlock, in order to annoy him. "But I would prefer, for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have, what you might call…a difficult relationship."

"No."

"I haven't even mentioned a figure."

"Don't bother." John states, holding up a hand.

Mycroft looks almost surprised and laughs. "You're very loyal, _very _quickly."

"No, I'm not. I'm just not interested." John scoffs. "Look, it's great that he has someone concerned for him, but I'm not going to get involved with _this_-" he gestures at the man. "I don't want to be in the middle of whatever this is."

"Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?"

"Who says I trust him?"

He scoffs. "You did just shoot a man for him tonight and you don't seem the kind to make friends easily."

"Are we done?" John asks, annoyed.

The man raises his head and looks him straight in the eyes. "You tell me." John looks at him for a long moment, then turns his back on him and starts to walk away. "I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen.

John stops dead. His shoulders tense and drop, he angrily shakes his head a little. Furious, he turns back around to face the man. "My what?"

"Show me." He nods towards John's left hand as he speaks, and now he plants the tip of his umbrella on the floor and leans casually on it like man who is used to having his orders obeyed. John, however, is not going to be intimidated and deliberately shifts his feet under him as if digging in. He raises his left hand, bending it at the elbow, and stands still. Forcing the man to have to go over to him.

The man remains unperturbed by this and moves forward, hooking the handle of his umbrella over his arm. As he reaches for John's hand he instantly pulls his hand back a little. "Don't." John states tensely.

The man lowers his head and raises his eyebrows at John. John then very reluctantly lowers his hands, holding it out flat with the palm down. The man takes it in both of his own hands and looks at it closely. "Remarkable." He notes.

"What is?" John asks, snatching his hand back.

The man turns back around and walks a few paces away. "Most people blunder around this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield." He turns towards John again. "You've seen it already haven't you?"

"What's wrong with my hand?"

"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand." Unintentionally John nods his head. "Your therapist thinks it's post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service."

John flinches as the man accurately fires off these facts at him. His gaze is fixed ahead of him and a muscle in his cheek twitches. "Who the _hell_ are you?" He asks angrily. "How do you know that?"

"Fire her." He states. "She's got it the wrong way round. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly still." John's eyes flicker down towards his hand before returning to stare ahead of himself, his face set and struggling to hold back his anger. "You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson…you miss it." He leans in closer. Reluctantly John's eyes rise up to meet his. "Welcome back."

They both suddenly hear a loud crash behind them and both turn around to see Sherlock running into the building from out of nowhere. "Must we do this every time Mycroft?" He yells, running up to the two of them. "Really, if you didn't think I could handle your boys-" He puts himself between the two of them.

"Always so aggressive." The man now John knew as Mycroft sighs. " Did it never occur to you that we belong on the same side Sherlock?"

"Oddly enough, no!" Sherlock states angrily. "And really, must we do this every time someone continues to associatewith me? Lestrade is already afraid that you're going to kill him if I end up in the hospital one of these days."

"Are you being _protective_?" Mycroft asks, with sudden interest. "Or is this just another way of telling me to stay away from your things?"

"Hold on a moment-" John cuts in. "Have I suddenly become some sort of possession?"

The two ignore him as Mycroft continues. "Though, how did you find this place so quickly? Even the men I sent over to you didn't know."

"Oh don't act like you don't know, you knew I'd show up eventually, Once I knocked some sense into Thomas, he informed me that they were to take John into a certain car, then he would be moved into another one, and finally given to Anthea, to bring to you." Sherlock explains.

'_Well that explains why it felt like I was being transferred so often.' _John notes.

"Congratulations on the case tonight, though you could afford to lose some of that public spirited energy." Mycroft smirks at the disbelieving look on Sherlock's face, as he changes the subject. "We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer...and you know how it always upset Mummy."

John frowns, unsure of what he just heard. "I upset her? Me?" Sherlock scoffs in disbelief. "It wasn't _me_ that upset her Mycroft."

"No, no, wait. Mummy? Who's Mummy?" John asks, not making sense of anything that has happened since leaving the restaurant.

"Mother-our mother." Sherlock explains, looking briefly at John and back to Mycroft. "He's the owner of the car we ran away from earlier. This is my brother, Mycroft."

John stares at the two of them in amazement. "He's your _brother_?!"

"Of _course _he's my brother."

"So he's not…" John trails off, not really knowing how to explain.

"Not what?" Sherlock asks.

Both brothers turn to face him curiously and John shrugs in embarrassment. "Well when you told me he was the most dangerous man I'll ever meet I thought he was, I dunno-criminal mastermind?" He grimaces at having even suggested it.

Sherlock looks at Mycroft disparagingly. "Close enough."

Mycroft shakes his head in annoyance. "For goodness sake I occupy a minor position in the British government."

"He _is_ the British government." Sherlock states icily. "When he's not too busy being the British Secret Service, or the CIA on a freelance basis."

"Sherlock really, this is just-"

"Good evening Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does to the traffic." Sherlock smiles coldly at him and turns to walk away.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft exclaims worriedly, dropping his calm demeanor, as Sherlock grabs John's wrist and feels a sudden wave of nausea.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 2**

_It was hot. It was windy. It was windy and it was bloody hot. Sherlock was staring at several sand dunes and the wind is blowing sand and rocks all over the large desert. Sherlock could see several buildings in the distance and the, what looks like a military unit waling inside one of them. A loud explosion, due to a bomb hidden in one of the nearby buildings, Sherlock deduces quickly, rings out and sends several military officers flying and landing in debris. One of them struggles to get up and Sherlock recognizes the form of John Watson easily and runs over to be near enough to hear everything._

_Fucking hell," John grimaces dragging himself up slowly._

"_Captain!" A young soldier runs up to him and helps him to his feet."Captain Watson, are you alright?"_

"_Fine, I'm fine." John states, pushing him away and looking around the rubble. "Where's Jim? Where's anybody?"_

"_Sir it…it doesn't look good." The young man gestures to a group of soldiers trying to remove some of the remains of the building. "We think everyone was buried under all of this after the bomb went off."_

"_Shit, go and grab my medical bag from the first building west of here. I'll go and help them recover everyone." John orders quickly, the soldier simply nods and runs off. _

"_Moran, how did your unit respond so quickly?" John asks, pushing a slab of cement off of a pile of rubble and handing a plank of wood to the taller, slightly older man he was talking to._

"_We were nearby when we heard the explosion, what the hell were you and Brooks doing in that building?" The man Moran asks angrily. "You're lucky to be even standing up."_

"_You're lucky I don't punish you for speaking to superior officer like that soldier." John retorts, in a way Sherlock doesn't believe that the man means it. "Brooks and I weren't even in the building, we were keeping hidden outside, while our unit was inside doing their damn jobs."_

"_Yes and while you were doing that, we were out here keeping you safe from snipers and the like." Moran states, tossing a rather large piece of glass over John's head._

_Moran was much larger then John in height and build, but John clearly had the authority and it looks to Sherlock like Moran knew full well not to push his luck. John scoffs, "You have your orders and I have mine, and you know better than to go against them."_

_Moran growls but doesn't say anything else. A few minutes of digging through the rubble go by and finally one of Moran's units finds someone. What feels like hours to Sherlock pass by and he watches John take care of every soldier they find. Most he realizes don't survive, but he continues to watch John struggle to try and save every last one of them._

"_Jim!" Sherlock hears someone shout and watches John finish up wrapping someone's bandage and stand up quickly. Jim, he realizes, is, or rather was, John's partner here, if this is John's worst memory Sherlock knows what's coming._

"_Jim! Jim, can you hear me?" John is frantically trying to get his partner to wake up. "Moran, help me hold his head up." John orders. The soldier obeys, without question, and makes sure that the other doctor's head is level. "Jim, I need you to wake up now, please." _

"_Captain I don't think-"_

"_Shut up!" John shouts angrily at Moran and leans over Jim's body again, as if waiting for some sort of sign that his partner is still alive. "Jimmy Brooks, you're stronger than this, open your damn eyes."_

"_Captain," Moran says more gently and grips John's shoulder._

_John shrugs off the man's attempt at kindness, realizing that it was too late for the young man lying in front of him. "Why don't you go and survey our surroundings and make sure that the enemy isn't coming to check out the wreckage." Moran doesn't move and John states more sternly. "That was an order soldier, go!"_

"_Yes sir." Moran finally nods firmly setting Jim's head down lightly and running off._

"_Damn it Jim, I told you to stay back at camp, but you just couldn't help running after me could you?" John murmurs angrily and shakes his head in despair. "You were a good man Jim Brooks and I'm going to miss having you around." Sherlock is surprised that John isn't more upset, but realizes that John has probably seen more than his fair share of acquaintances die in front of him. He watches John lean down and close the man's eyes. "I promise to take your secret to the grave Jim; you have my word, farewell."_

_Sherlock watches John get up and move over to help take care of the other victims and realizes how slow he's been. 'Wait a minute.' He looks over at John again. 'I'm usually in the body of the person the moment the memory resurfaces. I should know what John's thinking, feeling, and know whatever secret he shared with Jim Brooks.'_

_A gun shot is heard, followed by many more and Sherlock watches John pull out his gun and shoot someone, running down towards the small group, straight in the chest. 'I wonder if it's because John's still alive.' He muses. 'But I used to do it to Mycroft all the time and he's still alive.' Sherlock watches many more people die and Moran and John protecting one another's backs. 'This doesn't make any sense.'_

"_Captain Watson!" He hears behind him. Sherlock turns around to see John falling behind Moran, in the way that Sherlock realizes that he's been shot, shoulder presumably, this being John's worst memory. _

_Sherlock didn't feel it. 'What the hell is wrong with me?' He wonders, almost angry. 'Why am I only an observer, I should be there, as John.' Sherlock blinks, realizing that this is the first time that he's actually upset about not being able to feel someone's worst memory. He notes that he should be more worried for John, but seeing as this is a memory and the John he knows is still alright, isn't too worried. _

_Sherlock continues to watch and sees Moran bend down to see if John's alright. Not even a minute after bending down he's shot in the back. "Moran!" He hears John yell, as the larger man fall, nearly on top of him. Sherlock is slightly surprised when he watches John pull, what looks like a grenade, out of his trousers and throw it as hard as he can towards the shooting. _

_In the next few minutes Sherlock hears an explosion, but everything goes black and Sherlock can no longer see anything. 'I should be back in the warehouse with John and Mycroft…what now?' He muses, looking around and seeing the faint outline of another memory coming into focus. 'What on earth, no one has more than one worst memory, at least not in one touch. Who the hell are you John Watson?' He wonders, as the memory starts coming into focus._

_John stands in the foyer of an old hotel, closed for remodeling. A man Sherlock recognizes as the criminal Charles Fullerton was tied and gagged on the floor, propped up against the wall. 'You-you can't be serious!' Sherlock gapes at the sight in front of him._

_Crouching down in front of the criminal, John pats his cheek, and beams at him. He looks over the bruises forming on the other man's body, the small slit on his lip. "Ready to have some real fun?" he asked, drawing his knife from the sheath on his ankle. Sherlock was still staring, unblinkingly at this unexpected violence coming from the army doctor. He gazes at John for a moment and comes to realize that this act was done before he joined the army. _

_Fullerton didn't make a sound, just sat there and glared accusingly at John._

_"Oh, please. Don't give me that look." He pressed the knife up against Fullerton's cheek, right above the tape that was holding his gag in place. "Shall we start here?" Without pausing, John stabbed the knife into his cheek._

_Blood spurted from the wound and proceeded to run down over the duct tape and drip from his chin. But John was more intent on listening to the muffled screams the criminal was producing._

_John grabbed a fistful of his dark hair, tilting his head back so that their eyes were even. "Shh, Charles. No need to spend all of your energy now; I've only just begun."_

'_Just begun what?' Sherlock wonders vaguely, still more surprised at the display he was witnessing. _

_John gave a broad smile and slashed a dark line just under Fullerton's jaw, catching some of the blood that rushed to the surface on the flat of his knife. _

_In a flash of silver motion, the knife was stabbed straight into Fullerton's ribcage, between the last two ribs. He slammed his head back against the wall, arching his neck in pain. John twisted the knife, earning him a sharp scream and squeezed-shut eyelids._

_"Ah, damn." John looked up at Fullerton. "Blood on my gloves. And such a shame; I was hoping these would make it through this killing." Fisting his hand in Fullerton's hair, John slams his head back against the wall, forcing his eyes open. "Oh well, I guess. Small sacrifices. Right, Charles?"_

_Rocking back on his heels, John studied the knife protruding from Fullerton's side, noting the angle and depth of the stab. Everything he did was important. "You know," John muses, yanking the knife from Fullerton's side with a sharp twist and pushing to his feet, "I rather liked the way you looked with that thing sticking into your ribs. Little boring though, don't you think?" He rummages in his bag and brought out a long arrow with two feathers tied to the notch at the end. Sherlock cocks an eyebrow in surprise. "I've been saving this just for some fun."_

_John steps forward, shoving Fullerton's arm away to give him a better angle. "But I guess you'll do." And then, with a practiced skill, he speared the arrow through the raw, bleeding hole already in the criminal's side. "There you go," John whispers, cupping Fullerton's cheek and digging his thumb into the stab wound there._

_Fullerton's eyelids flutter, his eyes roll up. John quickly draws his hand away and slaps him across the face. "No, no, no, stay awake. I'm still not done yet."_

_Moving quickly, he sliced deep lines across Fullerton's wrists, the crooks of his elbows, the inside of his thighs, hitting arteries, and major ones at that. Nodding once to himself, John stands once more, reaching for the empty end of the towing chain he seems to have found on sight. With a soft grunt, he tossed it over a low ceiling beam, letting the end fall to the ground without a care for the noise it made._

_"Time to put you in the spotlight," John murmurs to Fullerton cheerfully, grabbing the rope that bound his ankles and using it to drag him closer to the chain. Fullerton struggles, moving his body in jerky motions as much as his bindings and pain tolerance allow. "Now, Charles," John chides, giving one last hard tug before linking the chain's hook through the rope, "don't be like that. You're going to be famous." John pats his cheek and walks away._

_He hoists the end of the chain over his shoulder and starts walking away, bracing his feet as the dead weight of Fullerton starts moving in an upward direction. John keeps pulling until he reaches the place where the opposite hook had been driven into the drywall._

_He turns back to look at Fullerton, now hanging completely upside-down, the blood slowly dripping from the cuts along his body. John grins, walks up and pats Fullerton's cheek fondly. "Let me know when you're getting dizzy." He backs off a couple of steps and watches the other man struggle, his movements making him swing on the chain. "Can't break it, dearie. You're just killing yourself faster."_

_John's words had no effect on the criminal, and John sighs, leaning back against a small table._

_It took nearly fifteen minutes, but eventually Sherlock notices the slow in Fullerton's frantic movements, a heaviness to his eyes and a shallowness to his breathing. _

_John grins and grabs his knife from the table. He strolls forward and halts Fullerton's swaying. "You did good, old chap. You did a mighty fine job," John assurers him before driving the knife into the criminal's jugular and pulling to the right, tearing it open. Blood pouring from the gaping wound, and splashing onto the ground._

'_Who the hell have I found?' Sherlock muses again, more surprised at his new flat mate's behavior then anything else. 'John seems so happy here, I wonder why it's one of his worst memories.'_

No sooner had he thought that when a darkness envelopes him again and he hears his brother's voice. "Sherlock." His voice was tentative, like when they were younger and Mycroft was trying to wake him up from his haze.

"I'm fine." Sherlock responds, opening his eyes and finding himself back in the warehouse. Still a bit dizzy he grasps John's shoulder, which is, thankfully, covered by the man's jacket. John is staring at him in both confusion and concern. 'He's confused, of course he is, after what he should've just seen, probably tried to bury those memories a long time ago.' Mycroft is staring at him disbelieving and he gives his brother a look. "Really Mycroft, I was a simple observer this time."

Mycroft quirks an eyebrow up in surprise. "That's never happened before."

"Yes, I know that!" Sherlock snaps, finally taking his hand off of John's shoulder and hauling himself up. He was surprisingly feeling perfectly alright, after seeing what he did.

"What the hell just happened?" John nearly shouts, the two men turning to look at him, as if only noticing him now. "Why did Sherlock grab my wrist and I suddenly remembered my worst memory?"

"Memories." Sherlock murmurs.

"What?"

"Memories." He repeats. "You didn't have just one bad memory, you had two."

He sees a flicker of panic cross John's face. "How-?"

"I have the annoying ability of being able to see someone's worst memory, or in this case memories, whenever I touch their bare skin."

"Sherlock!" Mycroft gives his brother a look of disbelief.

"What, weren't you the one who told me to get closer to someone?" Sherlock smirks, loving being able to use his brother's words, from five years ago against him. "We are, in fact, moving in together tomorrow."

The first words out of John's mouth surprise both of the Holmes brothers. "Well that explains the gloves." Sherlock saw a flicker of something, which he couldn't quite place pass John's face. "Hold on a moment," John intrudes, Sherlock worries for a moment, as John's face changes again. "You saw all that?"

Sherlock breathes a sigh of relief when it appears John's more worried than angry. _'As he has a right to be I suppose.' _He muses. "Yes, though usually I'm in the place of the person I touch-"

"And usually deposits anything he eats beforehand right after seeing the memory." Mycroft puts in calmly. "A shame really, seeing as he hardly eats anything in general." Sherlock gives his brother an incredulous look, who only shrugs. "I figure if you end up doing it again, at least this time Doctor Watson will know what to expect."

"Or, you could simply enjoy spouting out my weakness in front of people." Sherlock argues.

"I hardly see it as a weakness." Mycroft protests.

Sherlock only rolls his eyes and turns back to John. "But yes, as my brother so _kindly_ pointed out, I have the annoying habit of…um, well _vomiting, _after seeing a memory."

"And why on earth is that?"

"Well, as I said, normally I have taken the place of the person, so I feel them get stabbed, choked, raped, shot, all of this figuratively of course, but I suppose the point still stands." Sherlock waves a hand dismissively, not really caring, seeing as he's dealt with this since he was little.

John just gaps at him. "How long have you been able to do this? Is that how you were able to figure out that the woman tonight died because of that cabbie?"

"So full of questions tonight aren't we John?" Sherlock notes, simply wanting to get them out of there so he could ask John a few questions of his own, without his brother bothering them.

"You would be too if you just found out a guy you just met a few hours ago has the ability to see your worst memory." John remarks.

"He's been able to do it since we were younger and he grabbed my wrist for the first time." Mycroft puts in, not seeing an end to the bantering between the two in front of him.

"And your worst memory was what, falling off a swing?" John jokes.

Sherlock cracks a smile and replies with, "No, surprisingly, it was him getting bullied at school." Mycroft glares and Sherlock only shrugs. "What, it's not like that lasted long."

"So what, now you don't know what your brother's worst memory is?"

Sherlock simply shrugs. "Memories change as people grow up and experience new things. I really don't want to know what my brother has seen in his position as the '_British Government_.'"

"Careful there brother, you almost sound kind." Mycroft smirks.

"Though I'm sure the worst Mycroft's ever seen is an empty buffet table." Sherlock grins at the annoyed look Mycroft gives him. "Anyways, John, no I did not have to use my ability to figure out how the woman died tonight and I would hope that because of my deductions of you that you would believe that I am telling you the truth."

John sighs and shakes his head. "Strange as it sounds I do believe you."

"Are you only saying that because I've seen your worst memories and don't want me telling the world, or better yet Mycroft, though it would relatively be the same thing?" Sherlock smirks.

"Minor position in the British Government." Mycroft states again, his patience wearing thin.

"Whatever." Sherlock waves his hand dismissively again and turns back to John. "Are you coming John the faster I can get out of here the better."

John moves to follow him, but looks at Mycroft again. "So when-when you say you're concerned about him you actually _are_ concerned?"

Mycroft turns away from his brothers exiting form and turns to John. "Yes, of course."

"I mean, it _actually _is a childish feud?"

Mycroft looks up to watch Sherlock again. "He's always been so resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners."

John turns to watch Sherlock. "Yeah…" He then remembers everything that's happened tonight and turns back to Mycroft. "Oh, no. Gods no." He half turns to follow Sherlock. "Good-night then."

"Good night Doctor Watson, be sure to keep an eye on him."

"Still not doing it for you." John states, not turning around and jogging to catch up to Sherlock.

They're in the cab and John keeps shifting his eyes to look at Sherlock, who hasn't said a word since they left the warehouse. _'He knows what I've done, so why are we heading back to Baker Street instead of Scotland Yard?' _He wonders worriedly. _'Damn it Sherlock, at least talk to me, you saw my memories.' _ He recalls Sherlock's earlier words about not talking for days on end, but John doesn't think he could go a few days without Sherlock talking to him, he has the ability to see people's memories for god's sake!

The cab stops and Sherlock passes the cabbie a 50 quid, before quickly sliding out. The cab driver just looks at John, who shrugs and murmurs, "Just keep the change," before following getting out. He sees Sherlock at the front door with Mrs. Hudson, who is handing him a pair of keys. Sherlock turns around and tosses one of them over to John, then walks past Mrs. Hudson and into the flat.

"Is he alright dear, he did solve the case didn't he?" She asks, as John walks up to her.

He smiles at her, "yes, don't worry, I think he's distracted by something else. His brother showed up earlier and…well, kidnapped me." She looks up at him in surprise. "No don't worry, Sherlock showed up and got into an argument with him."

"Oh, well, that sounds like those boys." She laughs lightly. "Don't worry about him dear, he'll get over it."

John smiles slightly at her. _'I hope that's what he's worrying about.' _He thinks, but knows that isn't what Sherlock's thinking about. "Good-night Mrs. Hudson." He nods and walks past her to walk up the stairs.

"Good-night boys."

He walks up the seventeen steps into the apartment and sees Sherlock laying on the couch, with his hands clapped over his face in a thinking pose. John moves over and sits in the chair closest to the door. "So, are you going to talk to Scotland Yard, or am I going to have to deal with your brother?"

Sherlock doesn't even spare him a glance, but finally speaks to him for the first time since the warehouse, "What?"

"What do you mean what?" John asks, startled. "I know what you saw Sherlock, don't sit there and pretend you didn't."

"To which memory are you referring to John, the one in which you got shot?" John flinches slightly, but Sherlock continues, while still staring at the ceiling. "Or the scene in which I thought I'd never see you perform?"

"I have no excuse for what I did."

Sherlock runs his hands through his hair in frustration and sits up angrily. "How did you do it?"

"What do you mean how did I do it?" John blinks, surprised at the man's reaction. "You saw what happened. It's a good thing you weren't on the case back then or I would've been caught really quickly."

"I never solved it." Sherlock sighs deeply, staring at John.

"Pardon?" John asks, his voice cracking.

"You heard me clearly John, I'm not going to repeat myself." He lies back down on the couch. "I was there John, but the murder was too brilliantly done and clearly my deductions of the killer were wrong." He scoffs, turning his head to look over at him.

"What did you think the killer was like?" John wonders out loud.

"Don't misunderstand me, you match the description, but with a kill like that I expected the killer to do it again soon." He explains. "You know, serial killers, always wanting to get caught."

"Why the hell would someone like that want to get caught?"

"Appreciation! Applause! At long last the spotlight." Sherlock sits up, clapping his hands together. "That's the frailty of genius, John, it needs an audience."

John just stares at him. "So you thought I would do something like that again?"

"I couldn't solve it!" Sherlock exclaims again. "Do you know how hard that is? I can count on my hands how many people have been able to stump me."

"I told myself I would never do it again."

"So why did you do it in the first place?" He asks in exasperation.

"I snapped." John admits. "It was four months before I was due to leave for Afghanistan and my father was still beating my mother, Harriet was drinking herself into nothing, and I snapped in one of the worst ways possible."

"No the worst way possible would've been to kill yourself." Sherlock points out, standing up and moving to sit in the chair opposite of John.

"Is that your way of telling me that you're glad I didn't?" John jokes.

"You have an interesting way of interpreting my words." He notes. "But you are avoiding my original question John, _how did you do it_?"

"I stumped the great Sherlock Holmes; there is no way I'm going to tell you how I cleaned up the mess." John laughs, enjoying the look of torture on Sherlock's face.

"Then at least tell me what the motive was, oh…Oh." Sherlock exclaims in nearly the same way he reacted earlier.

John just sighs. "What?"

"You wanted to prove yourself." He states, getting up and leaning over John, who backs up as far as he can in the chair, nervous about how close the man was to his face. "Growing up, you were always the teddy bear rugby player. When you told people that you were going into the army they laughed and didn't believe it. You have a drunken father, a mother who's given up, and a sister who is being driven into the same path as your father, though I'm sure she's not the violent type."

"How could you possibly-?"

"You were at home one night, watching your family do the same old thing, someone must've talked to you about you joining again, most likely not the first time, and you, as you said, snapped." Sherlock continues, ignoring John's surprise. "You wanted to prove to yourself that you had the willpower to commit murder if you absolutely had to and who better to test yourself on then a criminal, who had been driving Scotland Yard insane." He concludes, smirking at John's expression. "I now only have one question, how did you catch him?"

John actually scoffs. "It really wasn't hard." Sherlock gives him a disbelieving look. "Really, it wasn't." He insists. "Look, Charles Fullerton had been a work friend of my fathers, under a different name of course, but I recognized him right away, and when he was sober I convinced my father to go hang out with him for a night."

"But he wasn't with anyone on the night he died-"

"Who said I killed him the night he went out with my old man?"

Sherlock looks at him thoughtfully. "Making sure that the police can't trace anything back to the people he saw the night he died…clever."

"At the time I didn't think it would work." John admits. "It took me a month to figure out all his habits, so one night I had everything ready and had waited outside the bar for him. I was surprised when he came out of the bar and wasn't drunk, but I wasn't going to let that stop me. I convinced him to come play poker and have a few drinks with some friends of mine. He was surprisingly easy to knock into submission." Sherlock is still staring at him and John only shrugs. "I know you saw the rest of the memory, so there's no point in explaining the rest."

"So you confess to the murder?" Sherlock asks, his voice is alarmingly calm.

"Yes, I confess to the murder of Charles Fullerton." John sighs exhaustively and narrows his eyes at the grin Sherlock is now giving him. "…You've been recording this entire conversation haven't you?"

Sherlock smirks again and pulls out a tape recorder. "I had too, there's no way I can't not have this John, you committed one of the very few murders I never solved."

John runs a hand over his face and glares at the man still in front of him. "So what now, are you going to use it as blackmail? You realize I could go to Scotland Yard and tell them how you solve the crimes."

"That's not how I solve the crimes!" Sherlock exclaims, annoyed. "I thought you said you know that."

"Yeah, I do, but there are people down at Scotland Yard who don't believe you." John states, thinking of the two officers that almost seemed to hate him.

"You think I care about what people think?" Sherlock laughs. "Those people down there are mediocre, at best, at what they do. This city is safer and more people are behind bars because of me."

"You don't care about that, the only thing you care about are that people know you're smart." John glares at Sherlock and sees something flash across the other man's face. "Your worst fear is people thinking you're stupid or wrong."

"Is this a double threat?" Sherlock grins, finally standing up straight and falling back into his chair, still staring at John.

"Only if you plan on giving that-" John nods towards the recorder that Sherlock was twiddling in his hand. "To Scotland Yard, I think about it now and I don't think Mycroft would be particularly interested in a murder that happened years ago."

They stare at one another for a moment and Sherlock finally opens his mouth. "You are an interesting man John Watson." He smirks and stands up, walks over to the desk near the window and drops the recorder in one of the drawers. "Don't worry, I was never going to give it to anyone, I simply wanted my own confession from you." He almost smiles pulling out a key from inside his pants and locking the drawer.

"You're serious?" John asks disbelievingly, watching Sherlock move back over to sit in his chair. "Why would you want a recording of me confessing to a murder?"

"I like to do my own investigating." He states simply.

John shakes his head. "That murder was the craziest thing I've ever done."

"And you invaded Afghanistan." Sherlock adds, with a hint of a smile.

"That wasn't just me." John states and then starts laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation. "But I suppose the murder was." He notes.

"To be fair, if he had been caught, Fullerton would've been on death row." Sherlock points out. "I doubt anyone really cared that he was murdered. However, the way the murder was committed scared Scotland Yard out of their minds."

"Yeah?" John smirks. "Glad to know you were able to work that part out."

"Well I had to give Anderson a good scare." Sherlock jokes. "Scotland Yard all thought the same thing would happen to one of them."

"Sherlock! I would have never harmed someone on the-"

"Still, at the time, it was a good laugh for me to get everyone riled up." Sherlock shrugs. "Lestrade was pretty mad at me after that night though."

"How the hell did you and the Detective Inspector meet anyways?" John asks curiously.

"He uh…he found me strung out drunk in an alleyway." Sherlock admits. "Actually, I was drunk and high on something, not sure on what that night, but Lestrade showed up, arrested me, and then-"

"Even drunk and high you managed to impress him by solving a murder he was investigating?" John guessed, thinking it would be the only reason Lestrade would still be allowing him on cases, even if he was clean.

"Precisely." Sherlock smiles at him.

"So at one point you actually were a druggie?" He notes out loud, realizing that Lestrade had an almost plausible excuse for checking Sherlock's flat every once and awhile.

"It was the only way I could calm my mind at the time." Sherlock admits. " Admittedly, I wasn't as in control of my obsession as I wish I had been, but I assure you I'm clean now."

"And who do you have to thank for that, Lestrade?" John asks curiously. "Or did your brother finally knock some sense into you?"

He scowls. "Lestrade found me and let, well forced me really, to stay with him for awhile. Mycroft found out eventually and kidnapped him, after he had talked to me, and asked what he was doing, Lestrade-" he smiles. "Lestrade yelled at him, asking him what kind of brother he was being to me. I think Mycroft was actually impressed and simply asked Lestrade to let me in on a few cases in order for me to stay clean.

"Sounds about right, should I be keeping an eye on you as well?"

"I don't need a keeper."

"No, but I think we've agreed that you need someone watching your back." Sherlock meets his gaze and finally nods, as if in agreement. They hold their gazes a few moments and both end up laughing.

"Speaking of your brother." John speaks up after settling down.

"What about him, if anything you won't have to deal with him for awhile." Sherlock shrugs him off. "Then again Mycroft likes playing with my toys."

"I'm not a damn possession." John argues with him. "But you realize that people don't actually have arch-enemies right?"

Sherlock looks at him with a bored expression on his face and curls up in his chair, almost like a cat. "Sounds a bit dull, what do people have, then, in their _real lives_?"

"Friends; people they know; people they like; people they don't like…girlfriends, boyfriends…" John trails off, trying to get a read on the man now staring up at the ceiling.

"Yes, well, as I was saying-dull."

"You don't have a girlfriend then?"

Sherlock's still looking up at the ceiling. "Girlfriend? No, not really my area."

"Mm." John replies and then blinks, realizing what Sherlock may have just implied. "Oh, right. D'you have a boyfriend?" Sherlock turns to look at him sharply. "This, is fine, by the way." John assures him.

"I _know _its fine." Sherlock states, turning quickly to look at him.

John smiles to indicate that he wasn't signifying anything negative by what he said. "So you've got a boyfriend then?"

"No." He grins, as if expecting that question.

John is still smiling, though his smile is becoming a little fixed and awkward. "Right. Okay. You're unattached. Like me. Fine. Good.

Sherlock looks at him suspiciously for a moment but then turns back to staring up at the ceiling. However, he then appears to replay John's statement in his head and looks a little startled. Turning his head towards john again, he starts speaking rather awkwardly. "John, um…I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any-" He is babbling at this point.

"No." John interrupts, flustered that's what Sherlock had gotten from that and clears his throat. "No, I'm not asking. No." He fixes his gaze on Sherlock's, trying to convey his sincerity. "I'm just saying, it's _all _fine.

Sherlock looks at him a moment and then nods. "Good. Thank you."

John sits back in his chair and sighs. "Really, I'm not even gay."

"Mm?" Sherlock look him over once.

"What ?"

"Nothing." He looks away again and then jumps out of his chair again. "Oh! That reminds me. John, in your first memory when you were trying to save your friend Jim, was it? What were you going on about some secret you would, as you put it, 'take to the grave?'"

"How did me telling you I'm not gay remind you of- oh you know what, never mind. Do you really think I would tell you just like that?" John gives him an incredulous look. Sherlock just continues to stare at him and John almost laughs. "Oh come on, surely you've figured it out?"

"How could I possibly without knowing all of the facts?" He argues.

Oh come on, who would agree to being your flat mate after finding out that, with a single touch, you can recall their worst memories, unless-" He sighs deeply. "They've met someone who could do the same thing, in the past."

Sherlock just stares at him intensely and finally blinks, as if realizing John's telling him the truth. "Your friend…was like me. He knows then, about Fullerton?"

"Yes, and much like our agreement, I knew that he had the ability, so we just both kept quiet." John shrugs, recalling how that conversation actually turned them into friends in the first place. "It wasn't easy for him to accept what I had done, but, he learned to accept it."

"Like you accepted him." Sherlock notes. "You know, you broke your promise to him rather quickly after returning home."

"Not really, I figured it would be good for you to know that there are other people out there with the same ability." John points out. "And I know that you've tried to ignore it half your life, but I thought you'd like to know that Jim was able to read minds, sense what people were feeling, heal wounds with a touch, and recall people's memories, not just the worst ones." Sherlock was giving him a look that he's seen hundreds of times on teenagers that have been told no by their parents. A look of determination. "Think you can figure all that out?"

"Don't know if I would want to." Sherlock states, looking away briefly.

John knows he's lying and raises an eyebrow. "Are you sure, one of the plus sides of figuring the ability out was that after using it Jim didn't throw up." Sherlock's eyes shoot back at his and flashed with interest. John shrugs. "To be honest that's what threw me off when Mycroft told me, but when you explained it, all of it matched up and I figured it was the same as Jim's."

"It'll be a new experiment." Sherlock states suddenly, falling backwards and, surprisingly, into his chair. "You, of course, will help me and be my test subject."

"Decided that on your own did you?" John sighs. "But, I suppose it would be interesting to see you manage to do it."

"Is that a challenge?"

"Take it in whatever way you want Sherlock, as long as you don't manage to send me to the hospital, I don't particularly care." John waves a hand nonchalantly up in the air and yawns widely.

"Tired?" Sherlock smirks.

"You should be too, aren't you exhausted?"

"I don't sleep, it just slows down the mind."

"Okay, so how long ago was it when your body gave out on you?"

"Sometimes last week, I don't remember the date."

"You haven't slept in a week?" John just gapes at him. "I really am going to have to keep an eye on you aren't I, not just in the literal sense."

"Oh, do as you wish."

"You're going to bed." John states.

Sherlock smirks, "Are you going to drag me?" He asks mockingly.

"If I have to lock you in your room, I will."

"I'll climb out the window."

"I'll meet you outside."

They glare at one another for almost a full minute, before Sherlock growls and crawls out of the chair. "Three hours." He states. "That's as long as I'll go, before I get up and continue my experiments."

"You mean the thing with the eyeballs?" John asks, watching the man pace around in front of him. "Let me guess, that's not the only experiment you have going on."

"Right, I should probably mention, doing experiments are also considered one of my more bad habits." He notes, still pacing. "One of the reasons I'm alone, I suppose."

"Alright." John sighs, getting up out of his chair. "Time for bed, go." He nearly shoves Sherlock down the hall and into his room. "Goodnight Sherlock."

"Goodnight…John." Sherlock murmurs, as if not use to having someone to say goodnight to. "…See you in the morning and, thank you again for your help tonight."

"You're welcome." John smiles at him. Sherlock nods awkwardly and closes the door behind him. John stares at the closed door a moment, before heading back down the hall and upstairs into his room. '_One hell of a day.' _He notes, collapsing onto the bed and shutting his eyes.

* * *

**All of the credit for the murder scene between Charles Fullerton and John, in his memory, belongs to the writer Cruis96 and her work 'Alone with the Devil,' which is highly worth the read.**

** s/9600662/1/Alone-with-the-Devil**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

"Ah Anderson, here we are again." Sherlock sighs with annoyance, as they walk into the New Scotland Yard and the man John met the day before, walked up to them.

John yawns tiredly; Sherlock had woken him up several times during the night with his violin. When Sherlock had told him that playing it was one of his, 'bad habits,' he didn't expect it at 4:30 in the morning. He stares at the two men now glaring daggers at one another and then notes that he had gotten even less sleep back in the army. "Anderson, would you just take us to the Detective Inspector?"

Anderson turns to look at John, as if seeing him for the first time. "Oh, you're still around then?"

"Just take us to Lestrade." Sherlock growls, "Or would you rather I tell the whole of Scotland Yard about your little affair with Sergeant Donovan?"

"Are you still implying something?"

"I'm not _implying _anything." Sherlock smirks in a way that both John and Anderson realize, that he doesn't just think, he knows for certain. John quirks his mouth up in a small smile at the display and watches Anderson gulp deeply. "Now-"Sherlock grins wickedly, leaning in close. "Take us to Lestrade."

Anderson glares at him, but finally turns and nods his head, gesturing the two of them to follow him. They enter the Detective Inspector's office and see the man in question behind his desk and staring at his computer screen. Anderson gestures them inside and closes the door behind them.

John clears his throat and Lestrade finally looks up at the two of them. "Ah Sherlock, John, good to see you." He stands up and holds out his hand, which John takes, before sitting down in the chair next to Sherlock.

"The cabbie was at the flat last night, texted me, letting me know that he wanted to talk outside, and he drove me down to the college. The rest you really already know, he gave me the choice between the two pills, or a bullet through my head." Sherlock states hurriedly. "Now, are you going to let me examine the pills or not?"

"I've already had our team look at them Sherlock, there's absolutely no difference between the two of them." Lestrade tells him, still trying to finish writing what Sherlock had just told him.

"Let me examine them then, I can do a better job than any of your people." Sherlock snaps.

"Sherlock I can't just-"

"Would you rather this happen again?" Sherlock interrupts him. "Those pills were supplied to him. Would you rather the culprit start handing them out to other potential killers?"

"What the hell are you going on about Sherlock; you can't just give me a vague statement of what happened."

Sherlock shakes his head in annoyance. "Oh come on, you really believe that the cabbie was creating the pills himself?" He stands up and starts pacing around the room. "Look, the cabbie was being given the pills by a man named Moriarty, who was paying our cabbie friend to do all of it."

"What!?"

"Moriarty was paying the cabbie, don't make me keep repeating myself, you know I hate that." Sherlock gives Lestrade a look. "The cabbie was putting that money away for his two kids."

"And he told you all this?" John asks, curious as if Sherlock had to use his gift to get the information out of him.

"No, I could read it in his face." Sherlock turns to John and gives him a grin that John found hard to argue with. "That and I made sure he was in enough agony in his last moments to tell me."

"Sherlock!" John nearly shouts.

"Oh, what does it matter now?" Sherlock protests, plopping back down in the chair. "He was already dying."

Lestrade finally finishes writing and leans back in his chair, staring at the two of them. "…I can give you twenty-four hours, but that's it." He states firmly, opening his desk drawer and tossing the bottle with the two pills over to Sherlock.

"That's all I'll need." He grins, pocketing the bottle and standing up.

"Don't you dare." Lestrade growls. "You know I still need your written statement before you leave the station." He turns to John. "I need yours as well."

"Don't worry, I'll make sure he finishes his _properly _before we leave." John assures him, before standing up and following Sherlock out of Lestrade's office.

"What on earth did you even say in your statement?" Sherlock asks John curiously, as they leave Scotland Yard nearly forty five minutes later. "Surely you weren't thick enough to tell the truth."

"Yes Sherlock, I was just going to write my confession of killing the cabbie serial killer." John nearly laughs, as they made their way onto the main road. "I simply stated that I had tracked where the phone was and that I didn't make it to the college on time."

"Bit dull." Sherlock cocks his head swiftly.

"What was I supposed to put down Sherlock?"

The man only shrugs and raises his hand to catch a nearby cab. "I'm going to St. Bart's to examine the pills, if you'd rather want to catch another cab and go collect your things from your old flat you can."

"Right, will you be back anytime soon?" John asks, as the cab pulled up to the curb and Sherlock opened the door.

"Likely not." He murmurs. "Don't forget to text me your cab details, this one's clean." Sherlock assures him, taking one look at the cabbie.

"Right, see you later then." John nods, as Sherlock closes the door and the cab drives off. John smirks, glad that Sherlock remembered that they had promised to let one another know the number of the cab they were getting in to, and walks farther down the street to try and get a cab of his own.

"Are you alright up there dear?" John hears Mrs. Hudson calling him from downstairs. John had just knocked over one of Sherlock's many boxes around the flat and it had caused a loud echo that must've traveled downstairs.

"Yes Mrs. Hudson I'm fine." He calls back. "Just knocked over a box, sorry about that."

A few moments later he hears the sound of creaking steps and Mrs. Hudson knocks once on the door and walks into the sitting room to find John nearly buried under the contents in the box that had fallen. "Oh dear, what happened?" She asks, moving over to help him up.

"Ow, thanks." He murmurs, standing up and wiping the dust off of himself. "I meant to grab something out of the box…that is now under this one, and accidently backed up into the fireplace, knocking this one off the mantle."

"What on earth is this?" Mrs. Hudson asks picking up one of the fallen objects on the floor.

John turns around and sees her holding an old leather bound journal. She hands it to him and he unclasps the belt and opens it up and reads the title page. _'The personal journal of Sherlock Holmes, age 7." _He quickly closes it. 'Didn't think he was the kind of person to keep these kinds of things.' He notes. 'Then again, it's probably a bunch of notes about his ability.'

"What is it dear, more experiment notes?" Mrs. Hudson asks.

"You've found things like this before then?" John asks, tossing the journal into Sherlock's chair and moving over to start picking up the mess off the floor.

"Oh, since he's moved in, I've found all sorts of odd things around the place." She waves a hand around dismissively and in a way that John starts to wonder how their landlady sees Sherlock, more than just as a tenant that was for sure. "I'll just leave you to it dear, unless you would like some help?"

"I've got it Mrs. Hudson, but thank you for helping me out of the mess." He assures her, picking up Sherlock's box and placing it on his chair.

"Of course dear, just call if you need anything." She smiles warmly and walks out, closing the door behind her.

'That woman is far too kind.' John shakes his head in disbelief. 'It's lucky Sherlock found a landlady like her, god knows no one else would put up with him. I've only known him a day and I realize this.' He sighs deeply and grabs the box he had initially intended to grab and makes his way upstairs to his room.

John walks back downstairs about a half an hour later and starts putting everything on the floor back into Sherlock's box, before putting it back up on the mantle. He picks up the remote to turn on the television, but the leather bound journal is still lying on Sherlock's chair across from him. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't a bit curious at what a young Sherlock had written. Sighing deeply he gets up out of his chair and picks up the journal. Unclasping the belt again he skips the title page and goes to the first entry.

_February 26__th__, 1984_

_My has gone off to University already, I don't understand why he left., anything he needs to know father can give him the information here, it's not like he won't retain whatever he learns. My, you don't have to go away to school to get smart. Why does he have to go away, he always told me that people who weren't like us were dull, so why is he gone? This is stupid. My, please come back soon, father has gone off on another business trip and mummy is off in Switzerland for a charity event. I'm left alone with the nanny again and I'm pretty sure she's scared of me, not that I care, it's not my fault she's having an affair with the family's driver. I never told you the truth My, but when I grabbed your wrist the last time I saw that your worst memory was that time you went on that trip with father and left me alone for a month. My, if your worst memory is leaving me alone, why did you leave again?_

John nearly closes the journal, 'what the hell happened between the two of them, if Sherlock was this close to his brother when he was younger?' He wonders, turning the page and trying to decipher Sherlock's scrawl of handwriting.

_May 14__th__, 1984_

_My, why is everybody around here so dull? I got the chance to talk to father for a few hours last week and that was the most interesting conversation I've had in a month. Granted, I've spent the majority of the last few months in my room, can't remember the last time I ate, not important. I haven't seen mummy for about two weeks, I think she's across the sea again. Why haven't we heard from you My, you were the one who taught me everything I know. I understand that you are 7 years my senior, smarter than I am, and a hell of a lot better in social situations, but have you just decided to write me off completely? I'm still trying to figure out why I'm still writing in this thing, it's not like you'll ever read this. No, you'll come back and I'll act like nothing is going on._

_August 20__th__, 1984_

_I truly don't know why I'm still writing in this thing. Honestly, My maybe this just helps me deal with the fact that you're still not here. I'm so bored I don't know what to do at this point. School is dull, people are dull, this house is dull, and life is dull. Also, my ability is getting irritating; I seriously can't get near anyone, at all. You were right My, its better that I just seclude myself and don't let anyone in. I nearly slipped the other day when one of the maids touched me and I saw her worst memory, which happened to be when she got a call that her father had killed himself, I had to figure out some way to tell her why she had just seen that memory, I simply stated I didn't know what she was talking about. She seems to have taken that as an honest answer at least, but I realize I need to be a bit more careful, only you, father, and mummy know what I can do. Why have you still not come home? Surely you're sick of University by now?"_

_November 8__th__, 1984_

_Are you seriously that mad at me for getting along better with your friend then you do? My, you showed up after months, barely even acknowledged that I existed, and then you get mad at me because…Oh, oh I get it. I didn't realize you swung for the other team, shall I tell mummy and father about that. OF course I suppose it wouldn't matter, I don't care, just didn't realize how much of the jealous type you were. Bloody hell My I don't know what to do anymore, you're pissing me off, father is always busy, mummy is always gone, and I want to basically kill the staff. I think I could figure out how to live on my own, but I'm not stupid, at seven I wouldn't get far. How is it we've gotten to the point where we ignore one another, we used to be close, well as close as the two of us could be I suppose, but still. I hate this My, and I don't want to hate it, so I'm deleting it, funny how you're the one who taught me how to do that. This is so stupid I'm done._

_January 14__th__, 1985_

_Father has passed away. Mummy is back and is in mourning, at least I think that's what's going on, and Mycroft you need to come back. I don't know what to do. Surely you've been told what's happened, so come the hell back. No, this isn't about me and you, this is about father's brother showing up out of the blue and talking to mummy, something about wills and a promise. According to most of the people we call family here right now, I'm a sort of ass, so I need you to come back and take care of what's going on at the moment because I don't and it's frustrating as hell. Moreover, I'm still trying to figure out why I'm still writing in this thing, when it's clear that you aren't ever going to read this, so...damn it Mycroft just get back here, I need someone on my level to talk to and a guinea pig for my new experiments. Come now, surely you've learned all you need to at University; it's been nearly a year._

John turns the page again, but finds the rest of the journal blank. He closes the journal and leans back in his chair covering his mouth with one of his hands and trying to comprehend what he had just read. 'So it's not just how he was raised, it was the fact that he practically grew up alone, that causes him to not know how to deal with people properly.' He notes, staring down at the journal again. 'Add all that and his ability, it's no wonder people think he's a sociopath and why he sees me more as a possession.' He suddenly hears his phone buzz in his pocket and places the journal on the arm of his chair, before reaching into his pocket and seeing eight unread messages, all from Sherlock. 'The hell-?' He murmurs, opening the first one.

"_Come down to Bart's if convenient-SH"_

"_If inconvenient come anyways-SH"_

"_Pills are proving to be a nuisance-SH"_

"_Surely it doesn't take that long to unpack your things?-SH"_

"_Seriously John if you don't come down, or at least message me back, I'm going to ask Molly to try one of these pills so I can prove my point.-SH"_

"_I'm really going to ask her if you don't contact me within the hour-SH"_

"_An experiment has gone wrong and I am in desperate need of a doctor's help, as quickly as you can please.-SH"_

"_Figured that last one wouldn't work, do I at least have your attention, or have you turned your phone off?-SH"_

Shaking his head in disbelief, and surprised that he managed to spend well over two hours reading five short journal entries, he texts Sherlock back. _"Sorry, misplaced my phone, who is Molly and why are you threatening to kill her.-JW"_

John yawns widely and stands up, in order to stretch and toss the journal back into the box. A few moments later his phone goes off again. _"A woman who has an odd crush on me I believe and will literally do whatever I ask, not exactly sure why.-SH"_

'You just answered your own question moron.' John sighs. 'Depending on how much she likes you, of course she's going to do whatever she can to make you happy.' He quickly sends a return text. _"Don't you dare let her near those things, I'm on my way now.-JW" _He quickly grabs his coat and runs out the door.

"_Well hurry up.-SH"_

When John finally finds himself in front of the door to the examination room he is nearly hit in the face with the door, as a woman, wearing a lab coat walks out. "Oh dear, I'm so sorry." She apologizes, as the door shuts behind her.

"It's fine." He assures her. "Molly, right?"

"Y…yeah, how did you-?"

"Sherlock texted me." He states, annoyed, and pulls out his phone, as if to prove it to her.

"Oh, you must be John!" She smiles warmly. He looks at her oddly. "No, sorry, it's just-"She points to the door. "Sherlock's been murmuring your name a lot today and seemed pleased the last time he looked at his phone, so I figured that you must have finally messaged him back." She explains hurriedly. "I think he was worried."

"That I didn't message him back?" John asks, honestly curious.

"Dunno, he was pacing around earlier and murmuring about an experiment he wanted to try, but needed someone to try it with." She shrugs.

John groans. "Please tell me he didn't ask you to do anything, as an experiment I mean."

She suddenly blushes furiously. "Of course not, nothing like that." John realizes what he may have implied and opens his mouth to phrase his question differently, but she continues.

"Thank god." He breathes a sigh of relief, honestly worried that Sherlock would've asked her to test the pills for him.

"I'll talk to you both later than." She smiles again and walks past him. "Oh and thank you, I didn't think Sherlock would find anyone that could occupy his time other than his work.

Understanding what she was suddenly implying he turns around. "No that's not how, we're not together-" He tries calling to her, but she had already disappeared. 'Damn it.' He growls and then sighs, as he opens the door to the lab.

Just as Molly had told him John found Sherlock pacing around the room in a fervent manner and only stopped when John closed the door loudly. "John!" He exclaims. "Finally, could you take any longer?"

"I had to take a cab, you know we live clear across the city." John argues with him.

"Not important." Sherlock states, walking up to him. "Anyways, I needed you here so that I could run an experiment."

"There's no way in hell you are getting me to try one of those blasted pills." John states firmly.

Sherlock simply shakes his head in annoyance. "No, not for that, I ended up destroying those blasted things, on accident, of course."

"You-Sherlock!" John exclaims, trying to stifle a laugh. "Lestrade needs those back by tomorrow you know."

The other man merely shrugs. "I'll merely make him another pair by tomorrow morning-fake, of course." HE smirks at the expression on John's face.

"But won't someone realize that they're fake?" John asks, moving away from his flatmate and over to one of the chairs in the room.

"Of course not." Sherlock waves a hand dismissively and moves to stand in front of John again. "Look, I need to ask something about your friend, the one with the same ability as me?" He looks at John, almost as if asking for permission and when he simply nods Sherlock continues. "Back when he found out and saw your memory, from where was his viewpoint?"

"He was me." John states simply. "He saw and heard everything from my body, as I recall, he said he could hear what I was thinking at the time as well."He looks at the expression on Sherlock's face. "Now that I think about it, you told Mycroft that you saw both of my memories outside of my body."

Sherlock growls and starts pacing around the room again. "That's never happened before and it shouldn't have happened, so why did it?"

"Ever think it could be because Jim had the same ability and was, well, part of my worst memory?" John asks, watching Sherlock pace and nearly running into everything in his way.

"That already crossed my mind, it doesn't add up." He states simply, stopping and staring at John. "The question is why? Why would Jim being a part of your memories stop me being able to get into your head?"

"I don't want you in my head in the first place."

"It's a memory." Sherlock argues.

"It's my memory."

Sherlock just ignores him and grabs John's wrist. He quickly flinches away. "John if you want to help me perfect my ability, I need you to cooperate." Sherlock argues with him. John glares at him, but finally holds out his wrist to Sherlock. Bracing himself, Sherlock takes John's wrist and the memory of Afghanistan comes into focus.

_Once again Sherlock is simply an outsider and watches the memory unfurl in front of him. John had just sent Moran away, so he could have his last farewell with his friend. This time Sherlock makes sure to get close enough to actually see the two of them _

"_Damn it Jim, I told you to stay back at camp, but you just couldn't help running after me could you?" John murmurs angrily and shakes his head in despair. "You were a good man Jim Brooks and I'm going to miss having you around." Sherlock is more focused on the man dying in front of him and can see that the man 'Jim Brooks,' is already dead. He watches John lean down and close the man's eyes. "I promise to take your secret to the grave Jim; you have my word, farewell." Sherlock knows that John can't see or hear him, but reaches down and grabs John's shoulder, in comfort._

"_Sherlock!"_

"_Sherlock!"_

Sherlock opens his eyes and is back in the lab staring at John, who is looking at him in annoyance. "What the hell Sherlock, you're the one who wanted to see the memory again, and then you somehow end up hurting me?"

Sherlock looks at him in confusion. "Hurt you, what are you going on about?"

John just stares at him in confusion. "…You really don't know, do you?" Sherlock just continues staring at him, giving an impatient look. "Sherlock, the minute you got closer to me in my memory, it felt like I was being stabbed in the ribs."

"…And you would know how that feels?" Sherlock states and then grows quiet, as John gives him an incredulous look. "Oh-right, er…sorry?"

John laughs, "like you care about subtlety. It doesn't matter to me Sherlock, you know that."

Sherlock stares at him another moment before blinking in confusion. "Wait a minute, you saw me in your memory?"

"Hmm, yeah, I must've missed you the first time."

"John, there's no way in hell-no one's supposed to know I'm there." Sherlock growls, running his hand through his hair in annoyance. "Moreover, how the hell were you the one who got hurt this time? That's my area."

John just shrugs, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms. "How the hell should I know? Like you said, not my area."

"…You, John Watson, are one hell of a puzzle." Sherlock states, staring at him with the upmost of interest. "I met you yesterday and you're already one of the more interesting people I've ever met."

John is surprised by that. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"Don't get used to it."

"I assure you, I won't." John laughs, watching the other man pace around the room again. "So, did you get the information you need for your notes?"

"Not even close, you've just raised more questions." Sherlock murmurs sitting back down on his stool and staring absentmindedly into his microscope.

"Happy I could help." John jokes. Sherlock simply growls again. "Sherlock was there a reason you asked me to come all the way down here, or was it just to see my memory again?" More silence. "Why couldn't you have just asked me back at the flat?"

"Thought you may be asleep by the time I got back." Sherlock informs him, still not looking up from his microscope.

"How late were you planning on staying here?"

"I don't know."

John just stares at him for awhile, watching as he fiddles with, what John assumes is one of the pills, on the table. He's moving around, as if nervous, and doing everything he can to avoid looking at John. 'Am I making him nervous?' He wonders and then remembers the journal entries. 'Oh, right, he basically grew up alone, does he even know how to have a flatmate?' Arguing with himself that he's doing the right thing John moves over to stand next to Sherlock and places a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. The man flinches drastically and looks up to John, who gestures his head to the door. "C'mon, let's go back to the flat."

"John, I need to-"

"No you don't, you need to come back to the flat." John tells him firmly.

"John."

"You're coming back to the flat with me now." John argues more firmly, nearly pulling Sherlock off of the stool. "C'mon, gather what you need and let's go."

Sherlock glares at him, but John catches the corner of Sherlock's lips curl up in the smallest of smiles. 'He wanted to come back to the flat, but wasn't sure how to go back with someone there.' John realizes and smirks. "I'm not a new pet you have to avoid you know."

Sherlock laughs. "No, you're more of a possession I need to keep in my sight."

John punches him lightly on the shoulder. "I'm not a damn possession Sherlock, just admit that you were too afraid to go back to the flat and ask me to help with your ability there."

"I wasn't-"

"You were." John states. "You're most comfortable here, that's why you asked me to come, a familiar setting." Sherlock quirks his lips up in a small smile and John punches him lightly again. "See, I may not be as good as you, but I know people."

"I'm not a normal person."

"This is exactly why I decided to become your flatmate."

"Don't really enjoy the dull, normal, human life?"

"You make it impossible." John laughs, watching Sherlock finish grabbing what he needs and putting on his coat. "Are you ready to head back?"

"Yeah, I can make the counterfeit pills over at the flat."

John had nearly forgotten about that and blinks in confusion. "You have the equipment you need to make more of those things back at the flat?"

"Of course, along with some severed body parts in the fridge." Sherlock smirks, wrapping his coat around himself tightly and wandering over to the door.

"Never a dull moment." John shakes his head in exasperation, before opening the door and following Sherlock out.

Hours later they were sitting in the living room, Sherlock was lying on the couch with his hands clasped together in front of him, and John is sitting in his chair, typing up the case from last night on his laptop. If his therapist wanted him to write about whatever was happening in his life, why not start with his new life with Sherlock?

"John?" Sherlock finally speaks up.

"Hmm?" John asks, still typing.

"Why on earth is my old journal on top of that box?" John looks up from his laptop and sees Sherlock staring over at the mantle. He feels a sense of dread wash over him. Sherlock catches the flicker of panic. "Oh for god's sake, you read that old thing?" Sherlock growls, getting up and walking over to pick the journal up.

"Oh don't give me this thing about privacy. This morning you hacked into my computer simply because you didn't want to go into your bedroom and get yours." John argues with him, though knowing it was pointless.

Sherlock gives him a cold look. "That's hardly the same thing John this-" Sherlock holds up the journal. "This is what I wrote in when I was bored."

"That's a load of bullshit and you know it." John states, watching Sherlock skim through it and fall into his chair.

"What do you want to know?" Sherlock sighs deeply, tossing the journal over to John, who catches it. "Oh come on, it's obvious from the look on your face that you want to ask about it."

"I hardly want to go into your life as a child." John protests. Sherlock stares at him for awhile. "Sherlock you really don't have to-"

"What talk about my life as a child?" Sherlock nearly shouts. "Yes I was alone nearly my whole life, but I respect both my father and my mother for what they worked for."

John didn't dare ask about how he felt about Mycroft. "So what happened, that last entry." John swallows nervously. "It looked like you wanted to write more, Mycroft-"

"Was a thorn in my side I was getting rid of at the time." Sherlock growls. "I had no intention of letting him back in."

"You really don't think he had a reason to leave?" John protests. "Sherlock your father died and there were people at your house. Did you ever think that Mycroft was trying to get you and your family out of something?"

"Are you implying that my father was involved in a bad deal?" Sherlock asks, his voice displaying annoyance.

"That's not what I was thinking at all." John argues. "I'm just trying to say that Mycroft may have been trying, in his own way, to protect you."

"Are you really defending the man who kidnapped you last night?" Sherlock actually laughs. "John, I'm not going to sit here and listen to you give the man who left me alone, excuses."

"Sherlock-"

"I'm not about to sit here and compare childhoods John." Sherlock states angrily. "I was alone and left to myself yes, but if you haven't noticed, I like it that way."

"No kid likes it that way." John sighs. "I don't want you thinking that this is me feeling sorry for you either Sherlock, it's just-these journal entries made you sound miserable."

"I got over it."

"Fine, then tell me what happened after all of this." John holds up the journal.

Sherlock stares at him coldly. "Mycroft finally came back, took a minor position in the branch of government where my father worked, and I moved on to University a few years later."

"And during that time…you became a druggie?" John asks cautiously.

"During that time I didn't really have the motivation to really do anything." Sherlock sighs deeply and sinks lower into his chair. "Everything was boring, so, when given the opportunity, I took the drugs whenever I could get my hands on them."

"Bet your family loved that."

"They cut me off actually."

"Were you really surprised?"

"Not in the slightest but, in the end, I found other ways to get the money I needed for a fix." Sherlock states calmly. "Things I doubt Mycroft would want to know anything about."

"Sherlock _I _don't want to know about it." John sighs. "Look, I'm sorry I ever read the thing."

"What were you trying to do John, compare childhoods?" Sherlock asks. "We both got the short end of the straw in that regard. I grew up in a wealthy and renowned family, but was alone. John you grew up in a moderate family, but your father was, well a drunkard, and you were forced to become the man of the house, grew up too early."

"Sherlock I really didn't mean to start all of this." John sighs deeply and throws his hands up in annoyance. "Sound analysis though, as always, but I stepped out of line by reading your personal stuff in the first late and for that, I'm sorry."

"No, it's-"Sherlock's phone starts to go off. Digging through his jacket pocket Sherlock finds his phone. "This is Sherlock." He answers. Less than a minute later he was jumping up from his chair in excitement. "Yes, we'll be there as soon as we can, yes we, yes John is still with me. Yes, I know the place. Yes, good-bye."

"Dare I ask?" John laughs, closing his laptop and watching Sherlock grab his coat.

"Murder in an alley near Norton Folgate." He exclaims excitedly, wrapping his scarf. "Are you coming?"

"You did already say I would go with you." John points out. "Besides, I didn't think that you'd want me to go, after this." He holds up the journal.

"John, as I was about to say before, I don't care, its fine." Sherlock smirks, tossing John his keys. "Ready to go?"

"Oh god, yes." John throws them in his pocket and follows Sherlock out the door.

* * *

**Happy early Thanksgiving to all those who celebrate.**


End file.
